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1844. 


VOLUME   XL 


EDINBURGH: 
WILLIAM  TAIT,  107,  PRINCE'S  STREET; 

8IMPKIN,  MARSHALL,  &  CO.  LONDON;  AND  JOHN  GUMMING,  DUBLIN. 

MDCCCXLIV. 


EDINBURGH : 
Printed  by  Wiluaii  Tait,  107>  Prince'i  Street. 


INDEX. 


Page 
A  New  Spirit  of  the  Age ;  by  Home,  .  .  .  269 
Abysainia ;  HBnris'B  TraTels  in,    .        .  182,232 

Aetreseesy  Our ;  or.  Stage  Favourites,  .        .414 

Africa,  Soath ;  Backhouse's  Visit  to,  .  .  .  630 
Alpaca,  The  ;  its  Utility  to  the  Fanner,  .  .  597 
America ;  Godley's  Letters  from,  .        .     317,435 

Annuals,  The  ;  for  1845,     .  .        .      789,  793,  794 

Antigua  and  the  Antiguans,  .        .  .197 

Aristophanes ;  The  Spirit  of,  .  .  312, 511,  634 
Australian  Sketches ;  by  Thomas  M'Comble,  95, 1 52, 308 
Authoress ;  Scenes  in  the  Life  of  an,    .        .       36,  245 

Backhoose's  Visit  to  the  Mauritius,  &e.        .        .630 

Barrett,  Elizabeth ;  Poems  by 720 

B«au  Bmmmell,  Life  of;  by  Jesse,  .    882 

Belle  (The)  of  the  Family ;  a  Noyel,    .        .        .104 

Bishop's  Diary ;  A, 163 

Blanks  and  Prizes ;  or,  The  Wheel  of  Fortune  ; 

a  Tale ;  by  Mrs.  Gore,  .  1,  69, 167,  205,  273,  348 
Bon  Ganltier  and  his  Friends,  .  .  119,341,47/ 
Bon  Gaultier ;  Papers  by,  .  49, 119,  341,  477,  545 
Bremer's  (Miss)  Hopes ;  or,  The  Curate,  .  .  442 
Bremer's  (Miss)  Sophia  Adelan, and  Strife  and  Peace,  141 
Breen's  St.  Lucia,  Historical  and  Descriptiye,  .  673 
Brougham's  (Lord)  Political  Philosophy,  *  .  529 
Brummell,  Beau ;  Jesse's  Life  of,  ...    382 

Buchanan  on  our  Taxation  and  Commercial  'Policy,  703 

Bums  and  Byron, 622 

Bums  and  Clarinda  Correspondence,  ...  28 
Bums  Festiral,  The ;  at  Ayr,  August  1844,  .    545 

Bniler,  Mrs.  (Fanny  Kemble) ;  Poems  by,    .        .    725 

Campaign  in  Ireland ;  by  the  Wife  of  a  Colonel,  650, 694 
Canada,  The  Settlers  in ;  by  Captain  Marryat,  .  807 
Carl^n,  Emily,  the  Swedish  Novelist,  .  .  •  493 
Carpenter,  The ;  and  The  Capuchin  Monk,  .  .  625 
Chadwick's  Report  on  Interment  in  Towns,  .    193 

Channing's  Works ;  his  Views  of  War,  .674 

China ;  Captain  Cunynghame's  Book  on,  .  .  664 
China,  History  of;  by  Thornton,  .        .603 

Clarinda  and  Bums  Correspondence,  ...  28 
Commercial  Policy  of  Britain ;  by  Buchanan,  .  703 
Common  Law  and  Special  Jury ;  by  an  Irishman,     303 

Complete  Sufirage  Party, 543 

Coningsby ;  or.  The  New  Generation,  .    447 

Com  Law,  The, 542 

Cornopean,  The  Improved,  ....      55 

Correspondence  between  Bums  and  Clarinda,  28 

Cox's  Life  and  Correspondence  of  Niebuhr,  .  709,  775 
Cunynghame's  Service  in  China,  Hong  Kong,'&c.  664 
Curate,  The;  or,  Hopes;  by  Miss  Bremer,   .        .442 

Dablmann's  History  of  the  English  Reyolution,  .  598 
Diaz,  Bemal,  del  Castillo ;  his  Memoirs,  .    668 

D'Israeli's  Coningsby  ;  or.  The  New  Generation,  447 
Druses ;  Society  in  the  Mountains  of  the,  ■  .    740 

Dublin  College  Life ;  Remmiscences  of,  20 

Dun's  History  of  the  Oregon  Territory,  .601 

Earth-Stopper,  The ;  by  John  Mills,    .  .488 

Eldon ;  Life  of  Lord  Chancellor,  .     570, 654 

English  Factories  and  Irish  Franchise,  .    337 

Episcopacy  in  Scotland, 294 

Erastns  on  Exoommnnioation ;  transl.  by  Dr.  Lee,    467 

Factories  Ten-hours  Bill,  The,      .  .405 

Feast  of  the  Poets  for  September  1 844,  .581 

Federalism;  Mr.  O'Connell  and,  .748 

Fisher's  Annuals  for  1845,  .     793,  794 

Foster's  Contributions  to  the  EeUctie  Beviev,  .  524 
Fox-Hnnt,  A ;  by  John  Mills,      ....    685 

Free  Trade, 541 

Free  Trade  and  Free  Labour  Sugar,    .  .476 


Gentleman;  What  is  a! 
Geraun  Lyrieal  Poetry  ;  Uhland, 


417 
364 


Tug. 
Grerman  Translations  of  Scottish  Songs,  .  35,118 
Germany,  Mrs.  Shelley's  Rambles  in^  .  .  .  729 
Godley's  Letters  fh>m  America,  .  .  .  317,435 
Gore,  Mrs. ;  Papers  by,  .  1,  69,  167,  205,  273,  348 
Grordon's  (Mrs.)  Fortunes  of  the  Falconers,  .  .321 
Gossip  on  Sensuous  Influences,  .  .  .  .219 
Grant,  Mrs.,  of  Laggan ;  her  Memoirs,  &c.,  .     174 

Grant's  Impressions  of  Ireland  and  the  Irish,  .  766 
Grant's  Paris  and  its  People,  ....  43 
Gravedigger,  The ;  a  Novel,  .        .        .151 

Hamilton  (Rev.  Dr.)  of  Leeds,  raising  a  War-cry,  679 
Harris'  (Major)  Highlands  of  JSthiopia,       .     182,  232 

Harry  Monk ;  a  Novel, 117 

Haverty's  Wanderings  in  Spain,  ....  327 
Heath's  Book  of  Beauty,  for  1845,       .  .789 

Herbst's  (Oswald)  Letters  from  England,  .  521,  641 
Historical  Society,  The  ;  Reminiscences  of,  .      20 

Holland's  Vital  Sutistics  of  Sheffield,  ...  56 
Hopes ;  a  Tale,  by  Miss  Bremer,  ....  442 
Home's  New  Spirit  of  the  Age,  ....  259 
Howitt's(W.)  Translation  of  a  Tale  by  Nicander,   625 

Ireland  and  its  Rulers  ;  Part  II.,  .  .  .  329 
Ireland  and  its  Rulers ;  Part  III.,        .        .        .    743 

Ireland  and  Repeal, 544 

Ireland  and  the  Irish  ;  Grant's  Impressions  of,  .  756 
Ireland,  Campaign  in ;  by  the  Wife  of  a  Colonel,  650, 694 
Ireland  ;  Memoirs  of  the  Union  with,  .  .    000 

Ireland  ;  Sketch  of  the  Great  Debate  on,  (Session 

1844  ;)  by  an  Eye- Witness,  .  .  .  .237 
Irish  Franchise  and  English  Factories,  .  .  337 
Irish  Loan  Funds  and  Montes  de  Piet^,  .  .784 
Italy,  Mrs  Shelley's  Rambles  in,  .        .        .        .    729 

Jacky-Jacky,  the  Australian  Bushranger,  .  .152 
Januarius  (Saint);  Liquefaction  of  his  Blood,  .  531 
Jeffirey 's  ( Lord)  Contributions  to  Edinlmrgh  Eeview,  1 2 
Jesse's  Life  of  Beau  Bmmmell,  ....  382 
Jost  Ammann's  Story, 561 

Keepsake,  The,  for  1845, 789 

King,  Lord  ;  Speeches  and  Writings  of,  .  .400 
Kirk  of  Scotland,  in  the  time  of  James  IV.   .       85, 156 

Laing's  (Samuel)  Translation  of  the  Heimskringln ; 

or,  Chronicles  of  the  Kings  of  Norway,  281,  369 

Life  in  the  Busk  Described,  .        .        .        .216 

Life  in  the  Sick  Room,  (by  Miss  Martinean,)  131 

Literary  Register,  56, 131, 190, 266,  321,  397,  462,524, 

591,  664,  740  793 
Liverpool ;  Two  or  three  things  about,  .  .  429 
Loan  Funds  and  Montes  de  Pietif,        .        .        .784 

M'Combie'  (Thomas)  Australian  Sketches,  95, 152,  308 

462 
462 
807 
630 
190 
805 
668 


McGregor's  Commercial  Statistics, 
Mahon^s  (Lord)  History  of  England,  Vol.  IV.,  . 
Marryat's  (Captain)  The  Settlers  in  Canada, 
Mauritius  ;  Backhouse's  Visit  to  the,  . 
Maxwell's  Wanderings  in  the  Highlands,  &c. 
Meredith's  (Mrs)  Notes,  &c.  of  New  South  Wales, 
Mexico  ;  Discovery  and  Conquest  of,  . 
Mills'  Our  Hearth  and  Homestead,  554, 613, 681, 757 
Mills'  (John)  ;  Papers  by,  .  .  488,  554,  613,  681 
Mills'  The  English  Fireside  ;  a  Tale,  .  .  .398 
Missionary  Meeting  (A)  calling  for  War,  .  .679 
Montes  de  Piet^  and  Loan  Funds,        .  .    784 

Morocco ;  French  Aggres8ion,and  English  Accusers,  677 
Morrison's  (John)  Reminiscences  of  Sir  W.  Scott, &c.  15 
Murray's  (Hon.  C.  H.)  The  Prairie  Bird  ;  a  Novel,  534 
Murray's  (Hon.  R.  Dundas)  Port  Phillip,  .  .213 
My  Wife's  Album ;  by  Bon  Gaultier,  .      49 

Mysterious  Man,  The ;  a  Novel,  .591 

New  Generation,  The ;  by  Mr.  D'Israeli,  .  .  447 
New  Novels,  The,  104,141,591,794 


INDEX. 


Page 
New  South  Wales,  Notes,  &c.  of ;  by  Mrs.  Meredith,  805 
New  Testament,  Politics  of  the,  .        .        .    749 

Nicander,  the  Swedish  Norelist;  a  Tale  by,  .  625 
Nichol's  Contemplations  on  the  Solar  System,  .  266 
NicoU,  Robert ;  Third  Edition  of  his  Poems,  .  728 
Niebuhr,  the  Historian  of  Rome :  Life  and  Corres- 
pondence of :  fVom  the  German ;  by  Cox,  709, 775 
Niemoewicz's  Notes  of  his  Captivity  in  Russia,  797 
Norway,  Chronicle  of  the  Kings  of,      .        .     281,  369 

O'Cody,  The;  of  Castle-Cody,  .        .        .417 

O'Connell  and  the  Federalists,  ....  748 
O'Connell's  Monster  Trial,  .        .      803,472,677 

Opening  of  the  Session,  The,  .  .  .  .137 
Opie's  (Mrs.)  Reminiscences  of  a  Party  at  Lady  Cork's,  101 
Oregon  Territory,  Dun's  History  of  the,  .  .601 
Oswald  Herbst's  Letters  from  England,  .  521,  641 
Otter  Hunt,  An  ;  by  John  Mills,  .        .        .619 

Our  Hearth  and  Homestead ;  a  tale ;  by  John 

Mills,  ....      554,613,681,757 

Oyerlander,  The  ;  An  Australian  Sketch,  .    308 

Overs'  (John)  Evenings  of  a  Working  Man,'  .    742 

Paris  and  its  People  ;  by  Grant,  ...      43 

Parish  Nurse,  The  ;  by  Miss  Meteyard,  .  .  36 
Parochial  Schoob  of  Scotland,  .  .  .  515,565 
Patmore,  Coventry ;  Poems  by,  ...    726 

Pearson,  Henry  Hugh  ;  Professor  of  Music,  Edinr.  735 
Pemberton's  (C.  R.)  Life  and  Remains,  .  .195 
Poetry :  by  Barrett,  Batler,  Patmore,  Thom,  Nicoll,  720 
Political  Philosophy,  by  Lord  Brougham,  .     529 

Politics  of  the  Month,  65,  255,  337,  405,  472,  541, 

608,  677,  748 
Politics  of  the  New  Testament,  .        .        .749 

Poor  Law  ;  Report  of  the  Scottish  Commission,        409 

Port  Phillip,  A  Summer  at ;  by  Hon.  R.  D.  Murray,  213 

Quaker  Mission  to  the  Mauritius  and  South  Africa,  630 
Raebum,  Sir  Henry ;  Morrison's  Reminiscences  of,  15 
Raimbach,  Abraham ;  Memoirs  of,  •  .  .  223 
Reid's  (Bfrs.  Hugo)  Plea  for  Woman,  .    423 

Reminiscences  of  Dublin  College  Life,  .        .      20 

Retrospect  of  the  Session,  1844,  .  .608 

Repeal  Agitations,  The  Two,        ....    472 


Report  of  the  Scottish  Poor  Law  Commission, 
Rose  (The)  of  Tistelon ;  a  Swedish  Novel,    . 


Pago 
409 
493 


Scenes  in  the  Life  of  an  Authoress,  .  .  86,  245 
Schools  (The  Parochial)  of  Scotland,  .  .  515,565 
Soots  Greys  in  Ireland.  By  a  Colonel's  Wife,  650,  694 
Scott  of  Monklaw  ;  The  late  Mr.  ...      68 

Scott,  Sir  Walter ;  Reminiscences  of,  .  .  .15 
Sensuous  Influences;  A  Gossip  on,  .        .219 

Shelley's  (Mrs.)  Rambles  in  Germany  and  Italy,  729 
Sheridan,  Billy  ;  and  The  O'Cody,  .  .  .417 
Sheridan's  (Billy)  Breakfast  Table,  ...  20 
Shoa ;  Major  Harris's  Account  of,  .  .  182,232 
Sketch  of  the  Irish  Great  Debate,        .        .        .237 

Smiles' History  of  Ireland, 401 

Solar  System,  The ;  by  Professor  Nichol,  .  .  266 
Sporting  Legend  (A)  of  Old  England,  by  J.  Mills,    787 

St.  Andrews, 857 

St.  Lucia ;  Breen's  Account  of,  .  .  .  .  673 
Strife  and  Peace  ;  a  Novel ;  by  Miss  Bremer,  141 

Swedish  Novels,  ....  493,  442,  469 
Syrians,  The  Modem ;  or.  Society  in  Damascus,    .    740 

Tahiti.  The  French  and  the  Missionary  Consul  a.t,  677 
Taxation  and  Commercial  Policy  of  Britain,  .  703 
Teacher's  Journal,  A,  ....    645,  697 

Ten  Hours'  Bill ;  The  Factories',  .        .        .405 

Thom,  William,  of  Inverury ;  Poems  by,  .  .  728 
Thornton's  History  of  China,  .  .  .  .603 
Tistelon,  The  Rose  of ;  a  Novel,  by  E.  CarHn,  .  493 
Twiss's  Life  of  Lord  Eldon,  ...  570,  654 

Tytler's  History  of  Scotland,  Vol.  IX.    .        .    85,  156 

Uhland,  the  German  Poet, 364 

Union,  Repeal  of  the, 472 

Vestiges  of  the  Natural  History  of  Creation,         .    800 

War  called  for,  by  Dr.  Hamilton  of  Leeds,  .  679 

War  deprecated  by  Dr.  Channing,        .        .  674 

Waterton's  Essays  on  Natural  History,       .         .  530 

What  is  a  Gentleman  f 417 

Wheel  of  Fortune,  The;  by  Mrs.  Gore.  See  Blanks. 

Wilson's  (Mrs.  C.  B.)  Our  Actresses,  .         .  414 

Wordsworth  and  his  Poetry  ;  Remarks  on,  •  641 

Woman  ;  Mrs.  Hugo  Reid's  Plea  for,  .        .  423 


m 


A  Beaeen,  .... 

A  Bridal, 756 

A  Christmas  Carol,  .  .  .129 
A  Fragment,  .  .  .  .719 
A  MoAer^  Wail.  By  C.  CampbeU,  587 
A  New  Scottish  Ballad,  .  .  126 
A  Rotary  from  the  Rhine,  280,  396, 
446,  510,  624,  786 
A  Song  from  Afar.    By  Mathisson,  590 


A  Swiss  Melody, 
America,     . 
April  Song, 
Beauty  and  Love, 


584 
428 
337 
344 
50 
587 
11 
54 
492 


Bursch  GroflKenbttfg,  . 
CampbelPs  FuneraL    By  a  Lady, 
Christmaa  Time, 
Comfort  in  Affliction,  . 

Death, 

England  and  France.  By  Mrs.  Gore,  48 
Epigram — and  Love  and  Reason,  653 
Galatea :  a  classical  Ballad,  .  582 
German   Translations  of  Popular 

Scottish  Songs,  .  .  35,118 
Ill-fated  Arabi^on,  .  .  .311 
lU-fated  Love,  ....  633 
Latoor  D'  Anvergne,  Grenadier,  589 
Lay  of  the  Bell.  (Schiller),  .  82 
Lays  of  a  New  Era,     ...      55 

Mary 492 

Mary  Stuart's  Last  Prayer,  .    482 

Musca  Moribunda.  By  S.  Jervis,  173 
Masic.    A  Rhapsody,  ,        .    212 

Night  and  Morning,    ...      54 


POETRY. 

On  Miss  Helen  Fancit^s  Juliet  .  1^ 
On  the  Cradle  of  a  Babe.  (  Beranger)  590 
On  the  Death  of  Campbell.    By  J. 

W.Ord, 586 

Prospective  Jubilee  on  the  Mersey,  584 
Queen  Elizabeth,  ...  583 
Recollections  of  an  Old  Tree.  .  368 
Schiller's  Ode  to  Joy,  .        .    244 

Song  of  the  Ennuye.  .  .  .  345 
Song  of  the  Secession,  .        .127 

Song  from  **  Egmont,''  .  .  663 
Sonnet  to  Richard  Gobden,  .    131 

Sonnet  to  Thomas  Carlyle,  .    588 

Sonnetoby  Major  C.  CampbeU,  .  434 
Sounds ;  a  Fragment,  .        .    588 

SUnzas  on  the  Bums  Festival,  .  696 
The  Ancient  Gentlewoman,  •  581 
The  Ballad  of  Lycaon,  .  .  342 
The  Beautiful  and  True ;  a  ballad,  584 
The  Bush  of  Southernwood,  .  585 
The  Child's  Questions,  .  .  774 
The  Convict  and  the  Australian,  51 
The  Dirge  of  the  Drinker,  .  .  348 
The  Doleful  Lay  of  the  Honourable 

LO.  Uwins,         ...      51 
The  Dream  of  Constantino,  .    69(> 

The  Fight  with  the  Snapping  Turtle,  346 
The  Flight  for  Freedom,  .  .  166 
The  Food-taxed.      A  Glee.     By 

Ebenezer  Elliott,  .        .     231 

The  Harp  of  Memnon,  .  .  585 
The  Husband's  Petition,  .  .  53 
The  Interment  of  Thos.  Campbell,    479 


The  Invitation  of  the  Tavern  Dan- 
cing Girl,         .... 
The  Invocation, 
The  Last  Home, 
The  Iaj  of  the  Legion, 
The  Lay  of  the  Love-Sick,  . 
The  Leander  of  the  Forth,  . 
The  Little  Maid  and  the  Flowers, 
The  Loyalist  of  the  Vend^, 
The  Massacre  of  the  M*Pheraon,  . 
The  Mishap, 


Page 

343 
53 
356 
487 
124 
121 
589 
484 
478 
54 
The  Mistress  of  Greylinff  Grange,  492 
The  National  Anti-Com-Law  LcNsgue,  42 
The  Night  Watch,  ...  54 
The  Norsemen,  ....  381 
The  Pic-Nic  of  Buccleuch,  .  .  664 
The  Poor  Man  to  his  Dead  ChUd,  236 
_     -  -  - —  485 

129 
765 
120 
94 
590 
588 
49 
151 
588 
103 
881 


The  Scheik  of  Sinai  in  1830, 

The  Scottish  Christmas, 

The  Shortest  Day, 

The  Song  of  St.  Rollox, 

The  Song  of  the  Starved  by  Law, 

The  Southern  Wind,    . 

The  Star  and  the  Angel, 

The  Student  of  Jena,  . 

The  Trooper's  Song,  (Schiller,) 

The  Wind  and  the  Leaf,      . 

The  Withered  Flower, 

Theckla's  Song,  (Schiller'k,) 

To  a  Dying  Favourite ;  by  S.  Jervis,  487 

To  Bon  Gaultier ;  by  F.  Rimini,     347 

To  Rosalind,  (Miss  Paucit's,)      .     123 

To  some  beautiful  Sea-Shells,      .    567 


TAIT'S 
EDINBURGH  MAGAZINE. 


JANUARY,  1844. 


BLANKS  AND  PRIZES ;  OR,  THE  WHEEL  OF  FORTUNE. 

A  TALE.    BY  MRS.  GORE. 


PABTI. 

CuEXBFULLY  overlooking  the  waters  of  the 
Severn,  as  if  taking  pleasare  in  the  beauty  of  its 
site,  and  superior  to  ihe  interested  views  usually 
arising  from  vicinity  to  a  navigable  river,  stands 
the  town  of  Afston,  or  the  town  we  intend  to  call 
Apston ;  an  ury  spot,  and  a  rural :  for  not  only 
are  the  gardens  of  the  spreading  suburbs  fair  to  see, 
and  interspersed  with  what  are  called  *' genteel 
residences,"  but,  in  summer  time,  a  very  fair  crop 
of  grass  makes  its  appearance  in  all  but  the  Mar- 
ket Place.  For  Apston  has  only  a  single  manu- 
factory, to  balance  against  a  considerable  number 
of  widows  in  easy  circumstances,  and  light-footed 
single  ladies.  The  tranquillity  of  the  place  ap- 
pears to  possess  an  almost  conventual  charm  for  the 
feebler  sex. 

No  barracks,  no  manufacturing  population,  no 
colliers  or  miners  within  distance,  to  shake  with 
their  insubordination  the  foundations  of  this  peace- 
ful city  of  refuge.  **  The  spinsters  and  the  knit- 
ters in  the  sun,"  pursue  their  work  unmolested ; 
and  the  spinsters  and  widow  ladies  their  whist, 
without  fear  of  an  intruder  more  dangerous  than 
Dr.  Toddles,  the  meally-mouthed  physician-general 
of  the  neighbourhood,  or  old  Mr.  Mumbleton,  the 
vicar.  St.  Ursula  and  her  train  might  have  set 
up  their  rest  at  Apston,  without  peril  to  their 
eleven  thousand  reputations. 

Among  the  singlest  of  the  single  ladies,  and  re- 
siding in  the  house  usually  pointed  out  to  strangers 
as  the  best  in  the  town,  was  Miss  Lavinia  Meade; 
a  damsel  who,  for  the  last  thirty  years,  had  gone 
by  the  opprobrious  title  of  old  maid ;  and  who, 
bom  to  a  good  fortune,  had  spent  the  greater  part 
of  her  life  in  rendering  it  better.  Wlky,  it  was 
hard  to  say :  for  those  who  amass  fortunes  for  their 
successor^  have  usuaUy  objects  of  affection  to  in- 
herit their  property ;  whereas  Miss  Lavinia  ex- 
hibited no  sort  of  sympathy  with  her  family  or 
feUow-ereatnxes.  Her  self-denying  thrift,  there- 
fore, pzobaUy  arose  ^m  an  innate  taste  for 
liosrding. 

But  tiiough  supposed  to  spend  only  a  fourth 
part  of  her  income,  and  to  waste  no  portion  of 
rv«n  fi4U  on  the  superfluities  Qf  li|e|  sb^  ngt  onljr 


took  the  goods  the  gods  provided  gratis,  but  took 
amazing  care  of  them.  The  old-^sMoned  fiimi- 
turo  bequeathed  by  her  grandmother  with  her 
spacious  house,  was  rubbed  and  scrubbed  and  bur- 
nished by  her  diligent  hand-maidens,  till  it  ac- 
quired a  sort  of  ironical  freshness,like  Uie  youthful 
airs  of  an  old  beau :  and  had  the  smallest  particle 
of  her  curious  old  china  come  to  mischance,  or  the 
smallest  piece  of  her  antique  plate  been  missing, 
the  magistrates  of  Apston  would  have  heard  of  it. 
Her  servants  wero  charity  girls,  taken  from  the 
poor-house,  to  be  drilled  into  a  knowledge  of  their 
duties :  and  that  their  drilling  did  credit  to  the 
crabbed  old  lady,  was  avouched  by  the  speckless- 
ness  of  her  floors  and  brilliancy  of  her  andirons. 
Miss  Lavinia  was  as  good  a  housewife  as  though 
there  had  been  any  one  to  applaud  or  profit  by  her 
housewifery.  But  not  a  human  being  took  plea- 
suro  in  the  neatness  and  orderliness  of  her  house, 
not  even  herself. 

It  was,  however,  at  least  an  object  of  envy.  Not 
one  among  the  whist-playing  widows  but  would 
have  been  thankful  to  exchiuige  her  narrow  lodg- 
ings for  the  roomy  and  commodious  mansion  of 
Miss  Lavinia  Meade ;  and  whereas  on  the  gaht 
evenings  devoted  to  receiving  the  thrones  and  do- 
minions of  Apston,  the  Mayor  and  his  deaf  wife. 
Dr.  Toddles  and  his  toadying  sister,  and  a  horde  of 
minor  Misses  of  small  accompt,  the  rich  old  maid 
gloried  in  an  exhibition  of  her  superior  gentility 
and  household  troasures :  there  was  some  excuse 
for  the  covetous  eyes  with  which  many  contem- 
plated her  establidiment,  and  many  more  specu- 
lated, like  Alexander's  courtiers,  on  the  future 
distribution  of  her  inheritance. 

For  Miss  Lavinia  had  no  immediate  relations. 
The  nearest  was  an  aunt,  married  in  British  Ame- 
rica, of  whose  family  littie  was  known  at  Apston ; 
and  the  old  lady  had  been  so  carefol  to  circulate 
in  the  town  that  she  could  devise  her  property  to 
whom  she  pleased,  and  that  the  public  charities  of 
Apston  had  better  look  to  themselves,  that  her 
whole  tea-drinking  acquaintance  were  justified  in 
trusting  that  the  heirless  old  maid  might  win  her 
way  to  Heaven  by  loving  at  least  <me  of  her  neighs 
hours  as  herself. 

In  deftwpe,  theytfore,  of  ^nj  mi  w^ailiev,  aiu| 


BLANICS  AND  PRIZES;  OR, 


in  spite  of  variabilities  of  temper,  characteristic  of 
March  rather  than  the  usual  simile  of  April,  (for 
they  changed  not  from  sunshine  to  rain,  and  vice 
versOf  but  from  rain  to  sleety)  her  card-parties  were 
sedulously  attended.  Every  newspaper  that  reach- 
ed Apston,  was  offered  in  euccession  for  Miss  La- 
vinia's  perusal ;  and  when  it  became  evident  to 
all  that  little  world,  that  Miss  Toddles,  the  Doc- 
tor's sister,  had  evil-spoken,  lied,  and  slandered 
herself  into  paramount  favour  at  the  White  House, 
a  general  outcry  of  indignation  arose,  at  the  idea 
of  that  fine  fortune,  of  three  thousand  a-year, 
passing  from  the  hands  of  one  stingy  old  skinflint 
into  those  of  another. 

Just,  however,  as  the  gossips  of  Apston,  and 
Miss  Hannah  among  the  rest,  had  begun  to  look 
upon  this  dispensation  as  unchangeable,  a  name 
escaped  the  lips  of  Miss  Lavinia  Meade,  unaccount- 
ably unfamiliar  to  the  ears  of  her  toadies.  She  began 
to  talk  of  '^my  oousin  Captain  Erskine;"  nay, 
even  to  accept  the  loan  of  newspapers  on  the  plea 
of  wishing  to  see  whether  the  Guzette  contained 
honourable  mention  of  this  hitherto  unmentioned 
kiDsman.  For  the  Peninsular  war  was  at  its 
fiercest ;  and  there  was  every  excuse  for  those  who 
had  Captain-cousins,  occasionally  feeling  hysteri- 
cal at  the  blowing  of  the  post  horn ;  and  no  sooner 
had  the  Apstonians  satisfied  themselves  that  Cap- 
tain Erskine  was  not  a  man  of  straw,  that  he  had 
a  local  habitation  in  Lord  Wellington's  camp  and 
a  name  in  the  Army  List,  than  ^ey  became  agi- 
tated in  their  turn  with  sudden  interest  in  Uie 
fortunes  of  the  campaign ;  and  echoed  with  an 
unanimous  **  Amen"  the  opinion  of  Miss  Lavinia, 
that  the  advisers  and  maintainers  of  that  bloody 
and  devastating  war,  would  have  enough  to  an« 
swer  for. 

''To  think  of  so  many  fine  young  men,  the 
hopes  of  so  many  honourable  families,  sacrificing 
their  valuable  lives  in  behalf  of  a  set  of  cigar-smok- 
ing, frowsy,  priest-ridden  Spaniards !  **  cried  Miss 
Toddles,  with  a  somewhat  single-sided  view  of  con- 
tinental politics;  upon  which  sympathetic  hint, 
all  the  old  ladies,  far  gone  in  their  cup&— of  hyson 
or  bohea — groaned  in  unison. 

There  were  those,  liowever,  in  Apston  who 
whispered  that  Miss  Toddles  had  appeared  quite 
as  much  startled  as  her  neighbours,  on  first  hear- 
ing the  name  of  Captain  Erskine  ;  and  protested 
that  all  these  lamentations  over  the  perils  of  **  fine 
young  men,  the  heirs  of  prosperous  families,"  pur- 
ported only  to  discover  ijie  nature  of  the  old  lady's 
feelings  and  intentions  towards  her  kinsman.  But 
whatever  curiosity  either  she  or  others  might 
entertain  on  the  subject^  was  soon  appeased : 
for  from  that  day  forth,  nothing  but  ''Captain 
Erskine"  was  heard  of  at  the  White  House. 
Whether,  as  some  asserted.  Miss  Lavinia  had 
only  lately  been  made  cognizant  of  his  exis- 
tence, by  a  deathbed  letter  from  her  aunt,  (a 
younger  sister  of  her  mother,  married  to  an  Ame- 
rican loyalist,)  or  whether  she  had  kept  the  secret 
in  her  heart  of  hearts  to  be  wreaked  in  vengeance 
at  some  moment  of  peculiar  spite  upon  the  aspir- 
ants to  her  inheritance,  certain  it  is  that  from  the 
moment  of  avowal,  she  appeared  as  proud  of  the 


relationship  as  if  no  other  woman  in  the  world  were 
cousin  to  a  Junior  captain  of  light  infantry. 

It  is  true,  no  other  at  Apston  happened  to  en- 
joy that  distinction.  Dr.  Toddles  had  a  brother 
who  was  a  half-pay  Colonel  of  Marines ;  and  Mrs. 
Mumbleton,  a  nephew,  a  Lieutenant  in  the  East 
India  Company's  Service*  But  not  a  soul  among 
Miss  Lavinia's  tea-drinkers,  sating  the  steiH  host- 
ess, had  the  smallest  right  to  feel  nervous  at 
the  issue  of  a  second  edition  of  The  Courier*  She 
was  the  only  heroine  akin  to  a  Peninsular  hero, 
throughout  that  quiet  town. 

In  piocess  of  time,  however.  Captain  Erskine 
came  to  be  everybody's  hero  as  well  as  her  own. 
Every  individual  of  the  tabby  coterie  was  familiar 
with  his  marchings  and  counter-marchings,  his 
hair-breadth  'scapes,  his  hopes  of  promotion,  his 
chances  of  leave  of  absence.  The  three  little  Misses 
Prebbles,  nieces  to  the  mayor,  made  spirited 
sketches  of  light  infantry  ofBoers,  manoeuvring  at 
the  head  of  their  companies,  both  on  and  off  the 
field  of  battle,-^all  supposed  to  bear  reference  to 
Miss  Lavinia's  cousin ;  while  the  Toddleses  were 
often  heard  to  whisper,  that  if  Captain  Erskine 
obtained  leave  of  absence,  they  only  trusted  no  im- 
portant movement  of  the  French  armies  might  take 
place  while  his  services  were  withheld  from  the 
cause  of  his  country!  Though  Wellington,  in 
short,  might  be  the  hero  of  Great  BriUun,  in 
the  eyes  of  Apston,  Erskine  was  the  man. 

At  length,  within  a  year  of  the  "  glorious  termi- 
nation" of  the  Spanish  war,  the  gallant  corps,  of 
which  Captain  Erskine  formed  a  part,  was  ordered 
home ;  that  is,  all  that  was  left  of  the  gallant 
corps:  for  on  its  disembarkation  at  Portsmouth, 
there  were  scarcely  men  left  to  return,  with  an 
effective  cheer,  the  warm  salutations  with  which 
they  were  greeted  by  their  fellow-countrymen  on 
shore.  Worn  and  torn,  they  looked  like  anything 
rather  than  the  victorious  troops  of  the  conqueror 
of  the  modem  Ceesar. 

Apston,  however,  still  beheld  them  in  its  mind's 
eye  as  the  elite  of  the  British  army ;  and,  now  that 
there  was  an  immediate  probability  of  an  introduc- 
tion to  Captain  Erskine,  scarcely  wondered  at  the 
triumphant  joy  of  Miss  Lavinia  ;  or  the  zeal  with 
which  the  gilt  frames  and  looking-glasses  of  the 
White  House  were  unpapered,  and  its  lustres  and 
girandoles  released  from  their  canvas-bags,  in  order 
to  do  honour  to  him  who  was  about  to,  do  so  great  an 
honour  to  them  all.  Theideaofpossessingfamiliarly 
by  their  firesides  a  man  still  reeking  from  the  smoke 
of  the  cannon  of  Soult, — a  man  fresh  from  the 
razing  of  cities  and  sacking  of  convents, — ^was  al- 
most too  much  for  the  sensibility  of  a  circle  to 
whom  even  a  militia-officer  was  a  rarity.  The 
younger  Misses  only  trusted  he  might  not  prove 
too  martial  and  ferocious  for  their  susceptibility ; 
the  elder  ones  saw,  with  envious  feelings,  that  Miss 
Lavinia  was  no  longer  ashamed,  though  her  ene- 
mies spoke  to  her  in  the  gate. 

On  the  evening  it  was  known  that  Captain 
Erskine  would  arrive  at  the  White  House  by  the 
London  coach,  all  Apston  held  its  breath  with 
emotion.  By  the  middle  of  the  following  day, 
one  began  to  inquire  of  the  other,  whether  the 


THE  WHEEL  OF  FORTUNE. 


swashbuckler  CaptAin  had  been  seen,  and  whether 
ciyilians  might  pTeeame  to  lift  their  eyes  in  hia 
presence.  When  lo !  it  transpired  that  the  man 
xfho  was  either  the  memorable  conain  of  Miss 
Lavinia  or  an  impostor,  was  scarcely  abore  the 
middle  height,  meagre  in  person,  and  sallow  of 
coontenance  ;  low-voiced  as  a  woman,  and  shy  as 
a  girl !  Dr.  Toddles  protested  there  was  no  getting 
a  word  ont  of  him  ;  and  the  three  Misses  Prebbles, 
who  lodged  opposite,  insinuated  that,  instead  of 
coming  to  Apston  with  HUiriff  intentions,  the  gal- 
lant Captain  was  etddently  come  there  to  die ; 
afflicted  with  an  incipient  Jaundice,  or  far  gone  in 
a  decline. 

This  was  a  sad  falling  off,  and  a  terrible  disap- 
pointment to  Miss  Lavinia.  She,  who  had  been 
squabbling  with  tax-gatherers  and  bnllying  church- 
wardens for  the  last  three  years  on  the  strength  of 
her  assertion,  that,  ^though  a  lone  woman,  she 
had  those  who  would  take  her  part;  and  that  her 
coasin  Captain  Erskine  would  never  see  her  put 
upon ;"  had  scarcely  patience  to  acknowledge  the 
relationship  of  the  poor  enfeebled  invalid,  who, 
even  in  his  best  of  times,  could  only  have  been  five 
feet  six.  She  felt  humiliated  in  the  person  of  her 
self-created  Goliath! 

There  was,  however,  no  help  for  it.  She  had 
threatened  people  too  largely  with  her  cousin,  and 
boafted  too  loudly  of  her  good  intentions  in  his  be- 
half, to  disown  him  because  he  was  slight  and 
sickly ;  and  aware  that,  having  no  other  relations 
in  England,  it  was  on  her  account  and  at  her  sug- 
gwtion  he  had  applied  for  three  months*  leave  of 
absence,  she  set  about  contracting  her  ambition 
to  his  proportions,  and  making  the  best  of  a  bad 
cousin.  She  would  not  afford  so  great  a  triumph  to 
the  malice  of  the  Toddleses,  as  reinstate  her  look- 
ing-glasses in  their  gauze -screens,  or  the  lustres  in 
their  canvas- bags,  till  the  White  House  had  render- 
ed honour  due  to  Captain  £rskine,  talis  qualis. 

For,  after  all,  insignificant  as  he  might  look,  he 
wu  fresh  from  the  field  of  glory  ;  and  though  such 
uily  little  kdies  as  the  Misses  Prebbles  might  feel 
disappointed  that  he  had  not  made  his  appearance 
in  regimentals,  he  was  unquestionably  many  de- 
grees nearer  the  heroic  than  either  the  mayor,  the 
vicar,  or  the  apothecary. 

The  new-comer,  meanwhile,  little  aware  of  all 
that  had  been  expected  of  him,  arrived  at  Apston, 
hoping  to  recruit  his  health  and  spirits  after  a 
harassing  campaign,  so  as  to  enable  him  to  return 
to  a  profession  which  occupied  every  ambition  of 
hifc  sonl ;  knowing  of  the  Miss  Meade  by  whom 
he  had  been  so  strenuously  invited,  only  that  she 
^^  the  rich  and  heirless  niece  of  his  excellent 
toother,  by  whom,  in  her  last  moments,  he  had 
^n  enjoined  to  cultivate  her  good-will.  He 
came,  therefore  without  mistrust.  Though  ill  and 
"iispirited,  he  had  experienced  in  too  many  profea- 
Monalemergenciea  the  kindliness  of  the  gentler  sex 
towards  a  suffering  soldier,  not  to  feel  assured  of 
sympathy  in  one  whose  tenderness  as  a  woman 
must  be  enhanced  by  congeniality  of  blood. 

Perhaps,  indeed,  the  Captain  may  have  felt  al- 
most as  much  disappointed  in  the  spare,  rectangu- 
lar, ungainly  being  who  presented  herself  to  his 


embraces  under  the  name  of  ^  hid  covimn  Lavinia,*' 
as  Mifls  Lavinia  had  been  in  km'  conain  the  Cap- 
tain. But  he  was  too  amiable  a  man  to  let  the 
slightest  indication  of  surprise  escape  him.  He 
came  there  to  please  and  be  pleased ;  to  conci- 
liate as  well  as  be  coaxed  into  oonvaleecenoe ; 
and  readily  resigned  hhnself  to  play  the  longest 
rubbers  of  the  longest  possible  whist,forthe  amaUeafe 
possible  stake.  Li  a  society  where  he  saw  as  great 
a  preponderance  of  pettiooats  as  the  one  he  had 
just  quitted  exhibited  of  red  ooata,  agreeable  oom« 
panionship  could  not  be  wanthig.  Though  diiap- 
pointed  of  a**  lovelyyofw^Lavinla,"  the  ApiteniaM 
could  not  all  be  old,  sour,  and  ugly.  After  half^i^ 
dozen  years'  hard  fightmg,  he  was,  in  ahort,  tmy 
to  reconcile  to  a  tea-table  and  an  elbow-chair. 

The  gentlemanly  manners  and  yielding  temper 
of  Captain  Erskine  would  perhaps  haveerentHidly 
found  favour  in  the  feline  eyes  of  hia  coasin,  had 
not  the  defeated  toady,  on  perceiving  Misa  LavinlA 
grow  accustomed  to  his  quiet  presence  at  the 
White  House,  seized  every  occasion  to  twit  her 
with  the  unenergetic  tamenesa  of  her  Bobadil; 
not  as  presuming  to  find  fault  with  him  on  her 
own  account,  but  expressing  her  regret  that  the 
valiant  knight,  on  whom  they  had  reckoned  aa  ao 
rampant  a  Romeo,  should  have  sunk  into  the 
laughing-stock  of  the  place !  Misa  Toddles  pro- 
tested that  the  Misses  Prebbles  had  privatelyaisaxed 
her,  not  one  of  them  would  accept  him^  were  he 
worth  a  million  per  annum ! 

"  No  fear  of  their  being  tempted,  I  can  promise 
them  !"  cried  Misa  Lavinia,  in  her  shrillest  tones  ; 
and  from  that  day,  though  more  pettish  and  frac- 
tious than  usual  with  the  gentle  invalid,  she  began 
to  drop  hints  among  her  female  friends,  that  the 
young  ladies  of  Apston  need  not  look  qiiiie  so  die- 
paragingly  upon  a  man  who,  if  not  an  Adonis,  was 
heir-presumptive  to  three  thousand  a-year  I 

And  now.  Captain  Erskine  had  indeed  a  hard 
time  of  it.  Between  the  peevishness  of  the  old 
maid,  who  treated  him  almost  as  a  dependant,  and 
the  forced  civilities  of  her  associates,  he  felt 
thoroughly  disgusted.  More  than  two  months, 
however,  remained  unexpired  of  his  leave ;  and 
with  only  his  pay  to  depend  upon,  and  the  remem- 
brance of  his  mother's  dying  injunction,  he  felt 
that  he  must  bear  and  forbear  with  his  kinswo- 
man. 

It  was  luckily  summer  time ;  and  there  were 
the  woods,  and  fields,  and  animated  waters  of  the 
Severn,  to  diversify  his  walks.  Between  the  river 
and  the  ledgy  ellfii  rising  high  above,  was  a  wind- 
ing path  on  a  marffin  of  short  green  turf,  which, 
at  three  quarters  of  a  mile  from  the  town,  was  cut 
short  by  the  fall  of  a  rapid  brook  into  the  Severn. 
But  over  the  brook  was  a  wooden  bridge,  connect- 
ing the  two  Sides  of  the  narrow  valley  severed  by 
its  waters ;  a  valley  of  fertile  meadows,  now  com- 
pressed by  a  rocky  gorge,  now  opening  with  out- 
spreading verdure,  trough  which  the  little  brook 
meandered  like  a  truant  idling  away  its  time,  and 
loath  to  leave  those  pleasant  pastures,  with  their 
thickets  of  alder  and  maple,  and  the  gay  profusion 
of  wild  flowers  which  water-meadows  are  apt  to 
engender. 


BLANKS  AND  PRIZES;  OR, 


This  secluded  valley  was  a  favoariie  resort  of 
Captain  Erskine ;  perhaps,  hecause  out  of  distance 
for  the  elderly  ladies  of  Apston,  while  even  the 
younger  ones  preferred  the  frequented  promenades 
in  the  suhurbs  of  the  town.  He  took  care  never 
to  (ui  them  why  they  never  bent  their  steps  so  far 
as  the  Boumefields ;  and  once,  when  the  spot  was 
alluded  to  at  the  White  House  tea-table,  spoke  of 
it  as  damp  and  dreary, — so  that  he  enjoyed  his 
favourite  walk  all  to  himself,  that  is,  almost  to 
himself  :  for  once  or  twice  he  had  noticed  there 
a  meanly-dressed  young  girl,  as  insignificant-look  - 
ing  as  himself,  who  appeared  to  be  carrying  a 
parcel,  as  if  employed  in  business. 

One  very  oppressive  afternoon,  he  found  her 
seated  halfway  in  the  valley,  under  shelter  of 
one  of  the  thickets  of  maple-bushes ;  and  as  thun- 
der was  beginning  to  growl  in  the  distance,  ap- 
prized her,  as  a  mere  act  of  charity,  that  a  heavy 
stonn  was  coming  on,  and  that  a  few  hundred 
yards  further  up  the  valley,  was  a  house  that 
might  afford  her  better  security.  Deeply  colour- 
ing, and  apparently  too  much  alarmed  at  being 
spoken  to,  to  reply  or  resist,  she  rose  from  the 
ground,  and  followed  Captain  Erskine's  directions 
at  so  rapid  a  pace,  that  when,  some  minutes  after- 
wards, he  availed  himself  of  the  same  shelter,  he 
found  her  already  installed  with  the  old  cres»- 
woman,  the  proprietress  of  that  wretched  abode,  to 
whom  she  was  apparently  well  known. 

''  I  told  ye  awhile  ago.  Miss  Margaret,  my  dear," 
said  the  poor  woman,  familiarly,  yet  respectfully, 
**  that  thunner  was  coming  on,  and  you'd  best  bide 
wi*  me  till  a'ter  the  storm.  But  you  wouldn't  be 
glided." 

''I  was  in  hope  of  getting  home  before  the  rain 
b^gan,"  replied  the  young  girl,  neither  refusing  nor 
accepting  the  wooden  stool  pushed  towards  her  by 
Captain  Erskine ;  but  standing  beside  it,  and 
peering  through  the  small  window  of  the  hovel, 
as  if  to  examine  the  weather,  not  very  easy  to  be 
scrutinized  through  the  cracked  and  clouded  panes. 
Soon,  however,  the  storm  commenced  in  fearful 
earnest ;  and  the  cottage  was  so  frightfully  shaken 
to  its  foundation  by  every  fresh  peal,  that  all  cere- 
mony among  its  inmates  was  thrown  aside.  Mar- 
garet, whoever  she  might  be,  hastily  flung  off  her 
bonnet,  and  covering  her  face  with  her  hands, 
knelt  down  on  the  day-floor,  concealing  it,  either 
in  prayer  or  agony,  aj^ainst  the  seat  she  had  re- 
jected ;  while  Captain  Erskine  was  occupied  in  sur- 
mising what  would  be  the  result  should  the  electric 
fluid  set  fire  to  the  thatch,  the  lurid  flashes  seeming 
every  moment  to  reach  the  threshold  of  the  hovel 
which  they  illumined  with  fearful  brightness. 

But  either  the  prayers  of  Margaret,  or  the 
helplessness  of  the  poor  old  cress- woman,  propiti- 
ated the  genius  of  the  storm.  Though  at  Uie  first 
outburst  it  seemed  concentrated  on  that  devoted 
spot,  by  degrees,  the  crashing  thunder  followed  less 
immediately  the  momentary  glare,  diminishing 
alike  in  violence  and  frequency.  During  these 
pauses,  the  loud  pattering  of  the  rain  was  now 
i^istinotly  heard*  At  length,  even  tbo  rain  seemed 
tp  ab»te«    The  growtog  inarph  of  the  storm  jjad 


when  Captain  Erskine  ventured  to  open  the  cot- 
tage-door, and  look  out  without  hazard  of  alarm 
to  its  trembling  inmates,  so  sweet  and  refreshing 
an  air  .burst  in  to  relieve  the  stifling  atmosphere 
of  that  close  chamber,  that  an  ejaculation  of  gen- 
eral thankfulness  was  irrepressible. 

Margaret  rose  firom  her  knees,  and  joined  him 
on  the  threshold ;  and  while  the  shower  still  fell 
heavily  beyond  the  eaves,  all  within  was  so  calm, 
so  sheltered,  that,  instead  of  warning  her  from  the 
open  lur,  he  stood  smilingly  congratulating  the 
young  stranger  upon  her  release  from  her  panic. 
But  he  did  not  smile  long.  He  saw,  from  the  red- 
ness of  her  eyes,  that  she  had  been  really  weepings 
and  from  the  gravity  of  her  brow,  that  she  had 
been  absorbed  in  prayer.  Moreover,  the  old  wo- 
man was  muttering  in  her  tremulous  voice  allu- 
sions to  Mount  Sinai  and  the  manifestations  of 
Jehovah  in  the  olden  time,  which  rendered  jesting 
out  of  place.  So  Captain  Erskine  contented  him- 
self with  speaking  kindly  instead  of  jokingly  to 
his  new  friend :  for  friends  they  already  were. 
After  that  storm  and  those  tears,  it  was  impossible 
to  fieel  himself  a  stranger  to  Margaret.  She  was 
no  longer  the  shy  girl  who  sat  pvdling  the  beard 
from  an  ear  of  rye-grass  under  die  maple  bushes ; 
but  a  gentle  creature,  to  whom  he  had  whispered 
words  of  solace  when  shrinking  from  the  terrors  of 
the  voice  of  God. 

While  assbting  her  to  tie  on  her  bonnet,  he  had 
occasion  to  remark  the  delicacy  of  her  features.  She 
was  not  a  beauty,  perhaps ;  but  she  waspleasanter 
to  look  upon  than  a  score  of  beauties;  and  though 
stiU  apprehensive  that  she  belonged  to  the  working- 
class,  it  could  not  be  to  a  class  of  very  hard  workers ; 
for  her  hands  were  slender  and  white,  and  smooth 
as  alabaster.  He  could  not  be  mistaken  on  that 
point, — shaving  contrived  to  hold  one  of  them  some 
seconds  within  his  own  when  assisting  her  from 
her  kneeling  position. 

When  the  moment  of  sunshine  came  that  fully 
justified  her  departure  for  the  town,  Erskine  was 
divided  between  his  de^re  to  bear  her  company  by 
the  way,  and  his  wish  to  remain  behind  and  cross- 
question  their  poor  old  hostess.  A  little  manage- 
ment reconciled  both  temptations.  While  offering 
the  old  woman  a  pecuniary  acknowledgment  of 
her  civility,  he  lingered  longer  to  receive  her  thanks 
than  was  his  wont  on  such  occasions,  in  order  to 
obtain  an  answer  to  his  question  of — *^  Does  Miss 
Margaret  belong  to  Apston?" 

^^  Where  else  should  she  belong  to,  after  being 
bom  and  bred  there! "  was  the  unpolished  reply. 
"  Though,  having  her  own  living  to  get,  poor 
young  lady,  ever  sin*  the  death  of  her  father,  (who 
was  master  to  the  grammar-school,  and  left  her 
bitter  bread,  and  little  enough  on't,)  she  might  as 
well  have  set  up  in  business  elsewhere.  Hows'- 
ever,  the  ladies,  she  says,  begins  to  employ  her  ; 
and  well  they  may;  for  a  sweeter,  more  charitabkr 
young  lady  never  trod  the  earth.  My  sons,  now 
at  sarvice,  were  scholars  to  her  poor  father :  and  so 
she's  apt  to  stop  here  and  rest  o  days,  on  her  way 
up  to  Hobart's  F«np,  when  she  carj-i^  home  her 
work,*' 

This »'«» e^ovgli  for  KrfiKin^t  11^  tHermi»i^J  ?»?< 


THE  WHEEL  OF  FORTUNE. 


to  enter  Apston  with  the  poor  young  girl,  seeing  that 
she  was  of  a  condition  of  life  to  be  injured  in  repu- 
tation by  his  attentions.  Yet,  somehow  or  other, 
— either  because  the  path  being  slippery  from  the 
rsin,  Margaret  loitered  by  the  way,  or  because  he 
found  it  difficult  to  slacken  his  usual  soldierly 
pace,— before  ten  minutes  had  elapsed,  they  were 
walking  side-by-side ;  nay,  more  than  side-by- 
side,  arm-in-arm!  But  Uiis  was  decidedly  the 
fralt  of  the  slipperineas  of  the  path,  which  render- 
ed it  dangerous  for  the  young  girl  to  traverse  the 
wooden  bridge  without  support.  Arrived  on  terra 
frma  at  the  opposite  side,  they  probably  foigot  to 
separate. 

Bat  Captain  Erskine  was  more  to  blame  than 
his  companion  ;  for  before  they  parted  he  ma^ 
naged  to  ascertain  on  what  day  Margaret  had 
promifled  to  carry  home  her  work  to  the  farm ; 
eridently  not  with  the  intention  of  avoiding  the 
Boumefields  at  the  moment  specified.  It  required 
more  than  light-infantry  philosophy  to  withistand 
such  a  temptation. 

In  spite  of  the  stunning  storm  and  the  wet 
gnsB,  he  had,  in  fact,  been  spending  the  pleasant- 
est  morning  he  had  enjoyed  since  his  arrival  at 
Apflton.  After  the  shrill  voice  of  his  cousin,  after 
the  frightened  looks  of  her  household,  after  the 
silly  affectations  of  the  Misses  Prebbles,  and  the 
spiteful  emptiness  of  the  rest  of  the  White  House 
coterie,  the  mild  and  unaffected  deportment  of 
Maigaiet  was  as  refreshing  to  his  heart  as  the  soft 
outline  of  her  youthful  features  to  his  eyes.  To 
meet  with  a  woman,  a  womanfy  woman,  after 
conaoiting  with  that  horde  of  tabbies,  was  a  temp- 
tation bi^ond  any  inflicted  upon  St.  Antony  of 
Padua. 

It  happened  just  then  that  the  old  matron  of 
Hobart's  Farm  and  her  comely  daughters,  must 
hare  been  more  than  usually  in  want  of  replenish- 
ment for  their  wardrobe  ;  or  that  Margaret's 
mantoa-maldng  was  sorely  in  need  of  alteration. 
For  almost  every  day,  certainly  every  Jine  day,  she 
Had  occasion  to  carry  home  work,  or  bring  away 
orders.  And  it  would  appear  as  if,  unwilling  to 
low  time  on  the  road,  she  devoted  it  to  a  course 
of  botany :  for  if  the  old  cress-woman,  the  sole 
inhabitant  of  that  secluded  valley,  had  been  in- 
clined to  make  observations,  she  could  not  have 
failed  to  perceive  that  irriguous  as  were  the  wind- 
ings of  the  brook.  Miss  Margaret  and  her  new 
friend  preferred  following  them  to  the  utmost,  for 
the  sake  of  having  the  waterflowers  (of  which 
they  were  doubtless  discoursing)  nearer  at  hand, 
than  to  keep  to  the  pathway.  Except,  indeed, 
that  Margaret  occasionally  cast  down  her  eyes 
npon  a  bunch  of  forget-me-nots,  bluer  than  the 
lest,  presented  to  her  by  her  preceptor,  she  seemed 
to  give  no  great  attention  to  his  lessons.  But 
Erskine  must  have  been  a  grave  teacher ;  for  he 
was  a  man  who  seldom  smiled ;  and  but  that  there 
^u  a  gentleness  in  his  voice  more  encouraging 
^Ittn  the  warmest  compliment,  might  have  passed 
for  a  man  of  cold  and  reserved  temper. 

No  need,  however,  to  pry  into  the  wanderings  of 
the  inofiinisive  couple.  The  old  cress-woman, 
»d  the  fwallowB  that  skimmed  the  brook  before 


their  faces  with  as  little  fear  or  reverence  as  before 
the  alder-bushes,  were  alone  cognizant  of  their 
growing  friendship :  let  us  emulate-  their  discre- 
tion,  and  keep  the  counsel  of  the  lovers. 

The  venerable  cottager,  indeed,  unversed  in  social 
etiquette,  thought  it  strange,  perhaps,  that  Miss 
Margaret,  who  had  a  quiet  comfortable  room  of 
her  own,  (over  the  upholsterer's  in  the  Market 
Place  at  Apston,)  should  prefer  receiving  lessons 
in  botany  in  the  open  air,  exposed  to  vicissitudes 
of  weather,  and  with  only  a  mossy  bank  to  rest 
on,  when  tired  of  rambling.  The  swallows,  perhaps, 
were  wiser.    But  no  matter. 

Meanwhile,  so  far  from  the  pleasant  rambles  of 
Captain  Erskine  in  the  Boumefields  rendering 
him  less  patient  under  the  thwartings  of  his  maiden 
aunt)  or  less  courteous  to  the  circle  of  her  tabby 
friends,  his  nature  seemed  to  become  milder 
than  ever  under  the  influence  of  a  heartfelt  pas- 
sion. His  growing  affection  for  his  poor  Mar- 
garet— ^poor  and  simple,  but  neither  unlettered  nor 
unrefined — seemed  to  inspire  him  with  indulgence 
for  the  failings  of  her  whole  sex.  He  could  not 
expect,  indeed,  that  the  Misses  Prebbles,  the  vain 
daughters  of  a  silly  mother,  should  have  received 
so  solid  an  education  as  the  schoolmaster's  child ; 
nor  was  his  rich  old  cousin,  spoiled  into  selfishness 
from  her  very  cradle,  likely  to  emulate  the  saint- 
liness  of  spirit  of  one  accustomed  to  the  buffets  of 
Fortune,  yet  so  conscious  of  her  own  incompe- 
tency to  resist  them,  that  she  preferred  stitching 
for  her  bread  in  her  native  place,  to  the  hazard  of 
harsh  usage  among  strangers  as  a  teacher  or  go- 
verness. 

And  so.  Captain  Erskine's  increased  deference 
towards  the  tiresome  old  lady,  and  the  considera- 
tion with  which  he  did  not  suffer  even  his  course 
of  botany  to  interfere  with  due  submission  to  her 
hours  and  domestic  arrangements,  so  softened  her 
feelings  in  return,  that  towards  the  end  of  his 
leave  of  absence,  ^e  began  to  count  the  days  as 
anxiously  as  himself.  Not  one  of  the  old  ladies, 
from  the  vicarage  downwards,  (with  the  exception 
of  Toady  Toddles,)  but  had  observed  to  her,  "  I'm 
sure.  Ma'am,  I  don't  know  what  we  shall  do  when 
the  Captain  is  gone :  the  Captain  is  the  life  and 
soul  of  our  parties.''  And  though  the  Prebbles* 
trio  whispered  apart,  that  ^*  it  was  but  still  life 
after  all,"  Miss  Lavinia  heaved  a  sigh  as  she 
reflected  upon  the  dreariness  of  her  cousinless  da^'s 
to  come. 

Just,  however,  as  she  was  on  the  point  of  in- 
quiring whether  an  extension  of  leave  were  out 
of  the  question,  there  arrived,  per  post,  a  letter  of 
extra  dimensions,  yet  free  of  postage,  bearing 
printed  on  the  address,  "  On  His  Majes^s  Ser- 
vice;" and  within,  an  intimation  from  the  Horse- 
Gruards,  that  his  Majesty's  service  had  no  further 
need  of  the  second  battalion  of  the  gallant  corps 
to  which  Captain  Alexander  Erskine  had  the  ho- 
nour to  belong. — ^At  Christmas  it  was  to  be  dis- 
banded. 

This  was  a  terrible  blow  to  one  who  had  been 
fighting  theflesh  off  his  bones  for  six  years  in  Spain ; 
and  whose  face  was  still  sallow  with  privation 
and  toilt    For  he  knew  that  he  had  not  sufficient 


BLANKS  AND  PRIZES;  OR, 


intereat  at  the  Horse-Gaards  to  get  on  active  ser- 
vice again,  at  a  moment  when  so  many  officers 
were  thrown  on  their  own  resources  by  the  ar- 
rangements of  the  peace  establishment ;  and  lo ! 
there  was  nothing  before  him  but  half-pay,  and  a 
few  hundreds  of  prize-money,  and  what  was  at 
that  period  emphatically  called  blood-money,  still 
due  for  the  sofwngs  of  his  peninsular  campaign. 

*^  But  your  oM  uncle,  Sir  John  Erskine  ?  "  eug* 
gctted  Miss  lAtinia,  the  agitation  of  his  feelings 
having  betrayed  to  her  the  nature  of  the  commu- 
nication he  had  received. 

^'  My  old  uncle  has  little  interest  with  the  pre- 
sent administratioii,  and  no  parliamentary  influ- 
ence. Government,  in  rewarding  his  services 
with  a  baionet<7,  thought  it  had  done  enough. 
Nor  is  he  able  to  assist  me  otherwise  than  in  my 
profesnon*  Sir  John  has  three  young  unmarried 
daughters  to  provide  for." 

Miss  Lavinia  preserved  an  awful  silenee.  Her 
grisly  eyebrows  were  elevated,  and  her  severe 
mouth  primly  pursed  up,  as  much  as  to  say, 
**  Expect  no  liberalities  from  me."  But  it  was  not 
of  to-  the  disbanded  Captain  was  thinking  at 
that  moment. 

After  a  cheerless  pause,  during  which  the  click- 
ing of  the  old-fashioned  buhl  dock  on  the  mantel- 
piece became  as  audible  as  at  dead  of  night, 
the  weird-woman  suddenly  exclaimed,  '^  Cousin ! 
when  I  thought  you  were  going  to  wish  me  good- 
by  in  a  day  or  two,  I  felt  lonesomer  at  the  notion 
of  parting  from  you  than  I  ever  expected  to  feel 
at  the  loss  of  any  living  companion.  Your  ways 
suit  me.  Captain  Erskine.  You  give  little  trouble 
in  the  house,  and  make  no  noise ;  and,  betwixt 
friends,  I  should  not  mind  having  you  for  a  per- 
manent inmate,  if  it  were  not  for  the  evil  tongues 
of  this  wicked  world.*' 

A  blush,  deep  enough  to  be  visible  even  through 
the  sallowness  of  hb  complexion,  overspread  the 
oheeks  of  the  soldier.  To  live  and  die  at  Apston, 
was  certainly  just  then  the  height  of  his  ambition. 
But  a  terrible  suspicion  glanced  into  his  mind 
during  the  second  clause  of  the  old  damsel's  ad- 
dress, that  she  was  desirous  of  drawing  yet  closer 
the  ties  of  relationship  between  them.  As  he 
glanced  towards  her  hard,  perpendicular  figure, 
and  a  countenance  furrowed  with  all  that  is  meanest 
of  the  cares  and  solicitudes  of  life,  the  notion  of 
aueh  a  Mrs.  Alexander  Erskine  caused  his  blood  to 
curdle. 

But  he  was  speedily  undeceived.  *'For  this, 
however,"  she  primly  resumed, "  there  is  a  remedy. 
I  am  getting  in  years,  cousin ;  and,  as  it  will  pro- 
bably please  Providence  to  assign  me  length  of 
days,  (as  to  my  forefathers  before  me,)  I  cannot 
deny  that  it  might  be  a  comfort  to  have  companions 
of  my  own  kith  and  kin  about  me,  in  place  of  in- 
terested folks,  who  have  no  thought  but  feathering 
their  nests  by  the  plucking  of  mine.  Nay,  it 
might  be  even  a  pleasure  to  see  a  yoimger  genera- 
tion growing  up  around  me.  Though  I  have 
chosen  to  avoid,  on  mj  oWh  account,  the  cares  of 
a  family,  I  am  not  averse  to  chUdren ;  especially 
such  as  I  should  have  a  right  to  inspect  in  the 
rearing," 


Captain  Erskine's  heart  thrilled  within  him. 
Yet  he  scarcely  dared  give  way  to  the  delicious 
hopes,  the  charming  prospects,  opening  around 
him. 

**  In  short,  cousin,"  resumed  the  spinster,  with  a 
grim  smile,  ^^not  to  waste  more  breath  upon  the 
matter,  what  I  have  to  say  is— Mabrt  I  and  your 
wife  and  family  have  a  home  ready  provided  for 
them  at  the  White  House.  All  I  expect  in  her  is 
a  cheerful  companion,  willing^  to  make  herself 
pleasant  and  useful,  so  long  as  my  time  lasts,  and 
calculated  to  do  honour  to  my  name  and  place ; 
which  she  will  inherit  after  X  am  gone  to  a  better 
world." 

Breathless  from  emotion.  Captain  Erskine 
scarcely  knew  to  which  first  to  dedicate  his  thanks, 
-—to  P^vidence  or  his  generous  cousin.  While  he 
was  still  pressing  his  lipe  to  her  bony  hand,  she 
continued ;  and  for  once,  her  harsh,  creaking  voice, 
was  music  to  his  ear. 

*^I  have  always  a  little  fund  laid  up  at  the 
Apston  bank,  for  a  rainy  day,"  said  she.  *^Ab 
many  hundreds  as  may  be  necessary  to  make  a 
merry  wedding,  shall  be  placed  to  your  account. 
I  do  not  mean  to  do  things  Bkmfnngjjf*  Dr. 
Toddles  and  his  sister  are  fond  of  hinting,  when 
my  back  is  turned,  that  with  mjf  fortune^  I  ought 
to  cut  a  better  figure  in  the  world.  I  mean  to 
show  them,  ay,  and  others  in  Apston  too,  who  shall 
be  nameless,  that,  when  occasion  needs^  I  do  not 
lose  sight  of  my  family  credit." 

^^  My  dear  Madam, — ^mydear  cousin  !"•— faltered 
Captain  Erskine,  deeply  penetrated  by  such  un- 
looked-for generosity. 

**  The  only  point  on  which  I  have  to  restrict 
you,"  said  she,  interrupting  his  demonstrations, 
*^  is  your  choice  of  a  wife.  I  am  not  so  narrow  in 
my  notions  as  to  fency  there  is  any  one  in  Apston 
worthy  to  share  the  noble  fortune  I  destine  for 
you.  The  Misses  Prebbles  shall  learn,  to  their  cost, 
that  fiy  heir  may  go  further  and  fare  better  in  his 
selection." 

Captain  Erskine  was  about  to  reply ;  but  Miss 
Lavinia  chose  to  be  heard  to  an  end. 

"  You  spoke  just  now,"  said  she,  ^^  of  Sir  John 
Eiskine's  daughters.  You  have  often  mentioned 
them  before,  as  pretty,  and  pretty-behaved  young 
ladies,  presented  at  court,  and  moving  in  the  circles 
becoming  their  birth.  Among  the  three^  it  is  hard 
but  you  find  one  to  suit  you,  and  whom  you  will 
suit.  Hasten,  therefore,  to  London ;  make  your 
choice;  and  pursue  your  courtship  with  fitting 
discretion ;  and  when  the  time  comes  to  disclose 
your  inclinations  to  your  uncle,  inform  him  that 
your  mother's  family  is  somewhat  better  to  do  in 
the  world  than  your  father's;  and  that  your 
nearest  maternal  kinswoman  is  content  to  settle  a 
thousand  per  annum  upon  your  bride.  What  you 
may  both  inherit  at  her  death,  will  be  contingent 
on  your  future  behaviour." 

Miss  Lavinia  natorally  prepared  her  bony  hand 
for  a  r^tition  of  the  salutation  already  imprinted. 
Bat  Captain  Erskine's  lips  were  ready  neither  with 
kisses  nor  thanksgivings.  He  wad  paralysed  i  It 
was  but  natural  his  cousin  should  condNide  it  to 
be  f^m  joy. 


THE  WHEEL  OP  FORTUNE. 


f 


<<I  ahAUEke  to  hear  what  Apston  will  he  pleased 
to  ny  to  my  family  anangementey"  pursued  the 
dd  maid,  ^  w|i«ii  yom  hring  down  to  the  White 
House  a  Mn.  Alexander  Erskiney  who  has  heen 
presented  at  oovut^  and  who,  ae  a  Baronet's  daugh* 
ter,  will  take  preeedenee  of  Mrs.  Mimibleton  and 
the  Mayoi^B  lady*  And  then  the  Misses  Prebbles, — 
not  one  of  whom  would  marry  you  with  a  million 
a-yesr !— eh?— 4Bt  ua  see  which  of  them  will  not 
be  thankinl  to  dance  at  your  wedding.'' 

Impossible  to  look  Isss  like  a  biidq|[room  than 
the  poor  eonsin  at  that  moment  Pale  as  death 
£rom  saddeo  reTukion  of  fteling,  tears  quirered  in 
his  eyes,  and  his  lips  quivered  with  emotion. 

It  was  a  terrible  story  he  had  to  tell ;  and  jndi- 
doas  would  ha  have  been  to  postpone  the  relation 
to  soma  future  moment.  But  lovers  are  seldom 
judidous.  Moreover,  he  seemed  to  feel  that  it 
would  be  a  sin  to  deoeive,  even  for  an  hour,  the 
relative  so  nobly  disposed  in  his  &vour.  A  storm 
of  rtproaehea  for  the  %nominiousoesB  of  his  choice, 
he  must,  of  course,  oonfiront.  But  storms  (whether 
ia  the  Boumefields  or  White  House)  are  of  limited 
duation ;  and  in  the  end.  Miss  Lavinia  could  not 
fail  to  become  softened  towards  a  being  so  pure  and 
fentlo  as  his  beloved  Margaret.  In  her,  the  kind 
eld  lady  would  find  fiftyfoU  as  much  companion- 
ship as  in  one  of  the  fashionable  daughters  of  Sir 
^ohn  Ersldne.  Margaret  would  comfort  her  bene- 
iietren,  in  ridcness  and  in  health,  as  she  had  al-' 
mdypromiaed  to  comfort  Ami/  Margaret  would  be 
asadraghtertoheroldage.  Maigaret  would  be  a 
blessing  to  her  household.  Mai^gazet^— Margaret, 
who  was  an  angel! 

And  so  he  actually  took  courage  to  relate  the 
whole  histoiy  of  his  loves ;  his  troth-plight ;  his 
certainty  of  fhture  happinees ;  and  confidence  in 
the  eventual  eatLsfisction  of  his  kinswoman  at  his 
disinterested  choice.  Absorbed  in  the  details  of  his 
nanative,  he  had  not  leisure  to  note  that  Miss 
Lsvinia  was  now  as  breathless  firom  stupefaction 
as  he  had  been  himself  a  few  minutes  before,  or 
that  her  &ee  was  becoming  livid  with  suppressed 
nge. 

At  length,  a  few  muttered  accents  escaped  her 
)Mle  lips  I  among  which  Captain  Erskine  could 
distinguish—-'*  a  mantua-maker !  a  sewer  of  seams  I 
—the  daughter  of  an  insolent  schoolmaster !  Those 
2Vebbles  girls  judged  him  truly,  after  all.  Piti- 
ful! {Mtifdl!  itttiful!" 

Inftuiated  as  she  was,  however,  Miss  Lavinia 
was  resolved  to  do  the  amplest  justice.  Instead  of 
giving  way  to  her  temper  or  her  prejudices,  she 
generously  gave  a  choice  to  her  cousin ;  ofi^ring 
to  oveiiook  the  insult  to  herself  and  roof  conveyed 
by  the  infamous  connexion  he  had  been  carrying 
on  with  idiat  'she  was  pleased  to  term  **  the  very 
dr^of  the  people,"  and  confirm  all  her  noble  pre- 
dispoiRtions  hi  his  behalf,  on  condition  of  his  break- 
ing off  his  acquaintance  with  the  worthless  crea- 
ture he  had  presumed  to  name  in  her  presence, 
and  undertaking  to  pay  his  addresses  to  one  of  the 
three  Miss  Erskines. 

The  consequence  of  this  liberal  propomtion  was, 
that  wUhfai  an  hour  •<  my  cousin  the  Captain"  found 
the  door  of  the  White  House  closed  upon  hun  for 


ever,  and  his  prospects  of  inheritanee  vanished 
like  a  dream.  In  taking  possession  of  the  shabby 
lodgings  becoming  his  future  condition  of  life  as  a 
half-pay  officer,  without  fortune  and  without  a 
home,  he  had  nothing  he  could  call  his  own  but 
the  baggage  which  an  accompanying  truck  depo« 
sited  at  the  door. 

A  month  afterwards,  and  his  property  was  insi 
creased  by  the  possession  of  a  lovely  and  amiable 
wife.  After  a  due  publication  of  their  baiins  in 
Apston  church,  he  had  gratefully  received  the 
hand  of  MinoABBT ! 


PART  U. 

Twelve  months  passed  away  after  the  grand 
family  catastrophe  at  the  White  House,  which  af- 
forded so  endless  a  variety  of  texts  to  the  gossips  of 
Apston;  and  they  would,  perhaps,  have  found 
newer  subjects  for  discussion,  but  for  the  almost 
insulting  olMstinacy  with  whidi  Captain  and  Mrs. 
Erskine  thought  proper  to  settle  tiiemselves  in  a 
spot  where  their  misdoings  were  so  much  a  matter 
of  notoriety.  Without  the  fear  of  his  indignant 
cousin  before  his  eyes,  the  kind-hearted  soldier  had 
conceded  to  the  prejudice  of  his  gentie  bride  in 
favour  of  her  birth-place.  His  own  colonial  ori- 
gin afibrded  him  no  ties  to  any  other  part  of  £ng^ 
land ;  and  it  was  consequentiy  in  Apston  that  he 
hired  the  very  small  house,  which  his  vefy  small 
fortune  enabled  him  to  furnish  for  her  reception. 

Wiser  would  it  have  been,  perhaps,  had  the 
young  couple  adhered  to  their  lodgings.  For  it  ia 
difficult  for  a  man,  inexperienced  in  housekeeping, 
not  to  be  tonpted  to  exceed  hb  means  in  providing 
for  the  domestic  comfort  of  the  object  of  his  adora-* 
tion ; — and  Margaret  had  seen  so  littie  comfort, 
and  deserved  so  much,  that  it  appeared  doubly  in- 
cumbent upon  her  happy  husband  to  consult  his 
inclinations  in  her  behidf,  rather  than  his  fortunes. 
Not  that  there  was  any  great  outlay  or  extrava- 
gance in  that  modest  habitation.  But  it  would  have 
l>een  better  to  keep  their  small  sum  of  ready  money 
at  their  disposal,  for  the  emergencies  of  oiter-life. 
What  lover  in  his  honeymoon,  however,  can  be 
expected  to  think  of  after-life  1 

Perhaps,  in  the  secrecy  of  his  soul.  Captain 
Erskine  still  reckoned  on  the  partiality  of  his  rich 
cousin.  Miss  Lavinia  had  no  surviving  relation 
but  himself;  and  it  was  difficult  for  a  man  de* 
ducing  his  notions  of  the  sex  from  a  being  gentle 
and  charitable  as  Margaret^  to  conceive  it'possible 
for  a  woman  to  be  wholly  unrelenting.  . 

Littie  did  he  know  of  the  arid  nature  of  thai 
loveless  and  joyless  being ;  and:  littie  surmise  of 
the  designing  malevolence  with  whi^h  her  bitter 
spirit  was  dkHj  aggravated  against  him  and  faia 
young  wife,  by  Miss  Toddles ;— -never  weary  of 
dwelHng  upon  the  luxurious  manner  in  which  her 
cousin  tiie  Captain  was  furnishing  his  new  house ; 
and  the  air  of  impenitent  self-satisfaction  apparent 
in  the  face  of  Mrs.  Erskine^  when  occasiontdly  met 
upon  her  hu!A>a]ld'S  arm,  strolling  on  the  banks  of 
the  Severn,  (perhaps  returning  from  Bbumefields.) 
**  No  lady  bom  and  bred,"  ehe  observed,  "  could 
lead  an  idler  liftthan  the  promotedmantna-maker," 


6 


BLANKS  AND  PRIZES  ;  OU, 


^  Now,  had  Miss  Lavinia  been  informed  that  her 
despised  relative  pursued  her  old  yocation,  or 
showed  peculiar  aptitude  for  domestic  drudgery, 
she  would  as  surely  have  imputed  it  to  her  as  a 
faulty  and  arising  firom  her  humble  origin,  as  she 
now  affected  disgust  at  her  airs  of  gentility. 

**  There  is  one  great  comfort,"  said  she,  mus- 
ing to  herself  after  listening  to  accounts  of  thia 
malicious  description.  **  They  will  come  to  beg- 
gary ! — They  will  assuredly  come  to  b^gary ! — 
One  child  already  bom,— -doubtiess  half-ardozen 
to  follow ;  and  all  to  be  fed,  in  these  hard  times, 
out  of  a  Captain's  half-pay !  Ay,  ay  I  they  will 
come  to  beggary ;  and  then,  in  the  midst  of  their 
misery  and  starvation,  let  them  apply  to  me^  and 
see  what  will  come  of  it !" 

On  quitting  her  house  to  renew  the  ofier  of  his 
hand  to  Margaret  at  the  penalty  of  disinheritance, 
Captain Erskine  had  of  course  determined,not  alone 
that  he  never  toould  apply  to  her  for  assistance, 
but  that  nothing  shoidd  induce  him  to  hold  the 
smallest  communication  with  her  of  any  kind. 
Bat  on  the  birth  of  his  little  girl,  in  the  almost 
frantic  exultation  of  finding  himself  a  father,  when, 
for  twenty-four  hours  past,  he  had  been  on  the 
brink  of  finding  himself  a  widower, — ^his  better 
feelings  overmastered  his  resentment.  In  his  wild 
extremity  of  joy,  alter  contemplating  the  young 
mother  and  her  lovely  infiuit,  he  wished  to  be 
in  charity  with  all  the  world, — ^he  wished  all  the 
world  to  be  as  happy  as  himself ;  and  under  the 
influence  of  this  Christianly  sentiment,  sat  down 
and  indited  a  letter  to  his  kinswoman,  acquainting 
her  with  the  happy  event,  and  entreating  that  all 
recollection  of  offence  might  be  banished  between 
them. 

Unluckily,  Toady  Toddles  was  at  hand  when 
these  overtures  of  peace  reached  the  White  House, 
to  suggest  further  implacability,  and  point  out  the 
interested  motives  of  this  tardy  act  of  submission. 

^'They  want  you  to  stand  godmother  to  the 
mantua-maker's  brat,  my  dear  Ma'am,*'  sud  she. 
^  They  will  be  inviting  you  next  to  drhik  caudle, 
and  serve  it  to  you,  perhaps, — ^he,  he^  he ! — ^in 
thimbles!  Excuse  me,  my  dear  friend;  but  I  can- 
not bear  to  see  you  so  imposed  upon." 

And  lo !  the  toady  hardened  Miss  Lavinia's 
heart ;  and  she  returned  back  Captain  Erskine's 
letter  in  a  blank  envelope.  He  never  wrote  again ; 
not  even  when,  at  the  end  of  his  second  year  of 
marriage,  he  found  himself  father  of  a  son. 

And  now,  the  struggles  of  the  happy  pair  were 
beginning.  For  if  scarcely  able  to  support  them- 
selves at  first  on  their  small  pittance,  how  were 
they  to  make  it  suffice  for  four,  nay,  for  Jhe^  in* 
stead  of  two?  For  though  Margaret  was  proud  as 
ever  to  officiate  in  the  most  menial  offices  for  the 
husband  who  had  sacrificed  so  much  for  her  sake, 
the  services  of  a  domestic  were  essential  to  the 
children  while  their  mother  was  laid  up.  Yet,  (as 
she  sometimes  said  to  Farmer  Hobart's  family,  and 
others  of  her  former  customers  who  had  never  lost 
sight  of  her,)  ^  Alexander  was  worth  twenty 
nurses;  so  khid,  so  thoughtful,  so  attentive,  so 
patient!"  and  it  was  really  surprising,  consider- 
ing the  former  habita  of  ibe  numly  soldier,  how 


handy  he  contrived  to  make  himself  in  the  little 
household ;  superior  to  no  office  which  it  was  a 
relief  to  his  over-tasked  wife  to  find  taken  off  her 
hand.  The  elder  of  the  Misses  Prebbles,  who  had 
married  a  rich  attorney,  and  several  oth^  ladies  of 
the  wealthier  daas  of  Apstonians^  could  not  refrain 
from  glancing,  with  an  eye  of  envy,  at  the  wife  of 
one  whose  devotedness  and  serviceability  transpired 
through  some  of  those  inexplicable  cracks  and 
fissures  that  betray  the  secrets  of  even  the  moat 
domestic  privacy.  Any  one  of  them  would  have 
exchanged  her  joyless  luxury,  to  be  waited  on  as 
Margaret  vras  waited  on, — to  be  loved  as  Margaret 
was  loved. 

Erskine  was  fortunately  of  a  mechanical  turn ; 
and  the  chances  of  his  foreign  campaigns  had  often 
compelled  him  to  turn  his  abilities  to  account. 
Now,  there  was  some  pleasure  in  rendering  them 
available.  To  promote  the  comfort  of  hia  wife  and 
children,  was  a  purpose  worth  working  for ;  and 
often,  when  his  neighbours  were  enjoying  their 
summer  pastimes,  the  hammer  of  lus  workshop 
might  be  heard,  constructing  furniture  for  his  littie 
nursery,  or  toys  for  its  grateful  inmates.  Once  or 
twice,  when  an  old  brother-officer  visited  him  in 
his  retreat,  though  civil  enough  to  congratulate  the 
half-pay  Captain  on  the  joys  of  his  domestic  lift, 
and  his  good  fortune  in  being  able  to  do  so  much 
for  its  promotion,  he  quitted  Apston  full  of  secret 
compassion  towards  the  man  who  had  been  com- 
pelled to  exchange  field-days  for  nursery  cares^  and 
the  bustle  of  a  garrison  life  for  the  drudgery  of  a 
cabinet-maker. 

For  though  the  taste  of  the  happy  couple  for 
botany  was  strong  as  ever,  they  had  no  leisure  to 
indulge  it.  No  summer  rambles  now  in  the  green 
pastures  of  Boumefields, — ^no  stooping  after  the 
myosotis,  no  poeticizing  upon  the  reckless  flight  of 
the  swallows.  It  was  too  far  to  drag  the  children, 
— ^too  fax  to  admit  of  leaving  them  behind  during 
so  long  an  absence ;  and  Margaret  had  so  much 
mending  and  making  to  get  through  for  her  dar- 
lings, (more  menduig,  however,  than  making,)  that 
even  during  the  sultry  summer  weather,  she  was 
often  forced  to  deny  herself  the  enjoyment  of  fresh 
air.  The  old  cress-woman  at  the  cottage  had  been 
dead  nearly  a  year,  before  the  Erskines  so  much 
as  heard  a  word  about  the  matter. 

All  thifl^  however,  Maigaret  assured  her  husband, 
was  no  privation  to  her.  She  had  been  accustomed 
from  her  early  years  to  sit  at  home  over  her  needle- 
work. The  natural  habits  of  her  life  were  seden- 
tary. All  she  desired  was,  that  he  who  was  other- 
wise accustomed,  would  not  for^  his  usual  exer- 
cise on  her  account.  It  gave  her  sufficient  pleasure, 
she  assured  him,  to  know  that  he,  at  leasts  was  en- 
joying the  summer  verdure  of  the  woods,  and 
freshness  of  their  dear  old  Severn. 

And  when,  in  compliance  with  her  entreaties, 
he  took  his  hat,  and  indulged  himself  with  a 
stretch  across  the  fields^  then  was  the  time  for  her 
most  arduous  industry.  During  his  abeenoe,  she 
would  set  about  a  thousand  miserable  littie  tasks 
of  reparation,  which  she  knew  it  humiliated  him 
to  see  her  perform ;  and  before  he  found  his  wigr 
boro^  f^in.  bis  workshop  wae  clel^»edput  and  set 


THE  WHEEL  OF  FORTUNE. 


in  Older,  or  his  wretched  wardrobe  refreshed  by 
some  of  those  expedients  of  good  housewifely 
nraally  deTised  and  practised  by  a  wife  so  good 
and  thonghtfol  as  to  desenre  better  fortunes  than 
neoesBitate  their  practice.  Poor  Erskine  was  sure, 
on  his  return,  to  find  his  house  swept  and  gami^h- 
edy  and  smiling  faces  awaiting  him  on  the  thres- 
hold. 

Sometimes^  indeed — ^for  the  eye  of  afieetion  is 
tenibiy  discerning — ^he  fancied  he  conld  perceive, 
amid  all  those  cheering  smiles  and  affectionate 
florices,  the  trace  of  tears  on  the  eyelids  of  his 
dear  Margaret.  But  the  conjecture  did  not  in- 
spire eren  a  momentary  fear  that  she  loyed  him 
kfls  than  formerly,  or  was  less  happy  in  slaying 
for  him  and  for  her  children.  He  guessed  exactly 
the  truth ; — ^that  when  he  was  not  present  to  be 
grieved  by  the  sight  of  her  weeping,  she  no 
longer  restrained  her  bitter  consciousness  of  the 
^Urming  poTcrty  threatening  their  little  house- 
hold,—tiiat  her  sickness  would  be  fatal  to  their 
comfort, — ^that  his  death  would  render  her  a  widow 
indeed, — that,  little  as  they  had  to  live  upon, — ^for 
their  duldrena*  sake,  they  must  not,  smut  not  die ! 
Nay,  so  fully  did  he  understand  the  generous  dis- 
pontions  of  his  wife,  that  he  fancied  he  could  see 
her,  after  reflections  dispiriting  as  these,  suddenly 
bnuh  away  her  tears, — ^resume  her  courage,  in- 
voke, for  self-support,  her  duty  as  a  mother,  her 
tenderness  as  a  wife, — then  resume,  with  re- 
newed industry  and  cheerfulness,  the  trivial  offices 
of  life. 

But  even  poor  Erskine,  with  all  the  closeness  of 
his  sympathy,  could  not  so  fully  enter  into  the 
meditatbna  of  Margaret,  as  to  overhear  her  revil- 
ing herself,  as  he  might  have  done,  for  having 
withdrawn  him  from  his  prosperous  career  of  pro- 
feauonal  duty,  into  that  depth  of  adversity.  **  Be 
was  not  bom  for  all  this  I "  she  would  falter,  while 
holding  one  infant  to  her  bosom,  and  with  her 
foot  rocking  the  cradle  of  an  elder  child ;  **  he 
has  the  spirit  of  a  prince  ;  he  was  intended  for  a 
manly  life ;  for  all  the  pleasures  and  pursuits  of 
a  gentleman.  How  shall  I  ever  forgive  myself 
for  having  degraded  him  from  his  condition  to  this 
wretchednessl" 

Still,  even  after  such  heart-aching  moments  as 
these,  she  contrived  to  be  cheerful  when  he  came 
back  to  her,  glowing  from  the  fresh  air  of  the 
country,  and  bringing  hedge-flowers  or  fruit  for 
the  ehildren,  the  produce  of  his  walk :  just  as  he 
described  only  the  pleasures  and  incidents  of  his 
apedition,  without  adverting  to  the  heaviness  of 
spirit  whidi  had  prevented  hhn  from  really  enjoy- 
ing the  elasticity  of  the  atmosphere,  or  the  cheer- 
ing influence  of  the  summer  sun.  They  hoarded 
their  griefs  from  each  other, — as  though  the  only 
poaseBsions  they  had  not  generosity  enough  to  share 
inoomnion. 

Sometimes^  when  some  sharper  necessity  than 
nnal  brought  the  frightfulness  of  poverty  to  stare 
them  in  the  face,  Margaret  was  on  the  brink  of 
tibng  her  husband's  permission  to  xetum  to  her 
old  vocation.  She  might  serve  him  better,  she 
tiiooght^  by  wprking  on  hire  for  strangers,  than 


to  found  courage  to  refrain.  Not  that  she  was  de- 
barred by  pride,  or  any  sense  of  superiority  to  her 
former  condition ;  but  she  exulted  too  truly  in 
bearing  his  name,  not  to  recoil  from  the  idea  of  de- 
grading his  children  by  the  humiliation  of  their 
mother.  Erskine's  son  was  an  object  of  worship 
in  the  eyes  of  poor  Margaret. 

Such  were  their  struggles ;  supported  with  all 
the  fortitude  of  a  strong  afieetion :  for  there  is  no 
courage  so  great  as  that  which  has  its  roots  in  the 
heart  of  another.  They  never  complained,  either 
to  themselves,  each  other,  or  the  world ;  perhaps 
because  aware  that,  in  the  world,  nobody  would 
have  cared  a  jot  for  their  complaining.  On  the 
contrary,  when  the  scarlet  fever  was  in  their  house, 
and  Toady  Toddles  (whose  brother  had  been  called 
in  by  the  parish  apothecary)  apprized  Miss  Lavinia 
that  it  was  likely  enough  die  might  soon  have  to 
wear  mourning  for. the  plebeian  wife  of  her  cousin, 
the  maiden  lady  observed,  that  ''it  would  be  a 
mercy  if  the  disease  were  to  carry  ofi^  two  or  three 
of  their  half-starved  children ;  but  that  not  a  shred 
of  mourning  should  ever  enter  her  house  in  behalf 
of  anything  akin  to  the  quondam  milliner  of  the 
Market  Phioe." 

Perhaps  it  might  be  her  ill-wUl  that  prospered 
the  poor  babies ;  for  they  struggled  through  their 
feai^  makdy :  and  their  poor  parents  thanked 
Heaven  on  their  knees  as  heartily  for  their  preser- 
vation, as  though  the  remainder  of  their  little 
lives  were  not  to  be  labour  and  sorrow.  But  what 
parents  think  of  such  things,  when  smoothing  the 
pillow  of  a  convalescent  child  ?  They  lived,  which 
was  enough  for  thankfulness.  He  who  findeth 
meat  for  ike  young  ravens,  would  provide  suste- 
nance for  them  hereafter. 

Nevertheless,  when  the  claims  collected  by  that 
heavy  sickness  came  to  be  enforced, — when  the 
severity  of  a  hard  winter  added  its  pangs  to  the 
privations  created  by  a  summer  of  affliction,— 
when  Margaret,  who  had  often  seen  her  husband 
sOently  deny  himself  the  necessaries  of  life,  found 
him  sometimes  compelled  to  withhold  them  from 
herself,  in  order  that  there  might  be  enough  for 
the  children,— «he  turned  aside  her  head  in  agony, 
that  she  might  not  be  forced  to  look  upon  the 
ghastliness  of  his  face. 

All  her  own  little  possessions  she  had  long  made 
away  with ; — a  few  sets  of  richly-bound  books, 
presents  to  her  father  from  his  favourite  pupils, — 
a  few  articles  of  plate^  family  devisals  to  her  mo- 
ther. What  remained  to  them  was  the  property 
of  poor  Erskine— little  enough,  indeed — ^but  cer- 
tain trinkets  and  trifles  of  family  inheritance, 
with  which  it  would  have  been  painful  to  him  to 
part.  But  she  saw  that  the  time  was  coming 
when  these  must  go.  They  had  no  debts ;  but 
between  the  present  and  the  day  for  the  quarterly 
payment  of  his  miserable  half-pay — (the  Golconda 
of  their  starvation) — ^there  must  come  a  moment 
for  them  to  have  recourse  to  a  credit  hard  to  ob« 
tain  in  circumstances  such  as  theirs ;  or  the  sacred 
treasures  connected  with  the  memory  of  the  dead 
must  be  defiled. 
Yet  from  the  half-warmed,  half-fed,  half-fur* 


by  working  for  him  and  bist    Stilly  the  ba^  hither*  j  nished  house  in  which  these  gri^vpus  oonaidera- 


10 


ALANiCS  AND  PRIZES  ;  OR, 


lions  were  perpetaftUy  iigitftied,  was  yisible  the 
roof  of  the  rich  cousin;  who,  if  clothed  neither  in 
purple  nor  fine  linen,  might  have  luxuriated  in  the 
vesture  of  a  queen,  witiLout  izyury  to  her  oyer^ 
brimming  ooffers.  And  the  suflferings  of  the 
Erskints  were  f ullj  known  to  Miss  Lavinia.  Her 
toadies  were  well  aware,  that  she  took  as  much 
pleasure  as  people  in  general  takeofience,  in  being 
talked  to  about  her  *^  poor  relations."  They  could 
not  be  too  poor  to  please  her.  It  was  delightful  to 
hearof  Captain Er^inehayingbeen  seen  in  athread- 
bare  coat,  drawing  along  the  riyer-path  towards  the 
Boumefields,  a  little  cart  constructed  by  himself 
for  his  children,  and  containing  three  of  them. 

'^  There  is  a  fifth  coming,  I'm  told  1"  added  one 
of  the  tabby  chorus.  *'  Much  good  may  it  do  the 
workhouse  ;  for  to  tkat  they  must  all  come." 

**  No  such  thing !"  retorted  the  malignant  old 
cousin.  '*  There  is  an  altematiye.  Captain 
Erskine,  who  has  long  forfeited  all  claims  to  the 
name  and  appearance  of  gentleman,  has  sold  his 
sword,  I  am  told,  and  will  doubtless  soon  mortgage 
hishaJf-pay.  Still,  there  is  a  resource  for  the 
family.  The  schoolmaster's  daughter  may  set  up 
shop  again,  and  take  in  dressmaking ;  that  is,  if 
people  can  be  found  rash  enough  to  trust  her  with 
their  materials." 

Soon  afterwards,  the  gossip  of  Apston  announced 
the  birth  of  the  fifth  ^arer  of  the  scanty  suste- 
nance of  the  Erskines ;  and  the  fact  that,  for  want 
of  proper  assistance,  the  mother  of  that  helpless 
little  family  had  nearly  lost  her  life. 

Under  this  tiying  circumstance,  no  one  was 
sorprised  at  the  pertinacity  with  which  the  poor 
fainily  kept  the  house.  For  weeks^  they  were 
neither  seen  nor  heard  of;  and  as  they  could  not 
all  have  been  translated  at  once  to  a  higher  sphere, 
curiosity  began  to  be  excited  concerning  the  origin 
of  their  seclusion.  If  Captain:  Erskine  were  put 
in  prison,  it  must  be  for  some  old  debt  elsewhere, 
for  he  owed  not  a  guinea  at  Apston :  and  i/mick 
a  catastrophe  had  occurred,  the  news  would  cer- 
tainly have  transpired  in  the  town. 

^  Something  out  of  the  common  must  have  hap- 
pened to  those  Erskines,"  observed  Mrs.  Latitat, 
the  former  Miss  Prebblea,  one  evening,  over  a  pool 
of  commerce  at  the  White  House,  which  purported 
to  enliven  the  party.  ^'  As  I  passed  their  pigeon- 
hole of  a  house,  this  afternoon,  I  observed  all  the 
window-shutters  dosed." 

<</ could  have  told  you  as  much  yesterday," 
added  one  of  her  sisters,  *^  had  1  considered  sndi 
people  worth  speaking  df." 

^*I  should  think  one  of  the  family  must  be 
dead,"  added  Mrs.  Latitat. 

*^  Likely  enough ;  as  they  have  nothing  to  live 
upon;"  interposed  Miss  Lavinia,  who  had  just 
accepted  a  life  of  grace,  and  was  again  dealing. 

**'  Why,  bless  my  sbul ! "  exclaimed  old  Mn. 
MumUeton,  (whose  vicarage  gates  commanded  a 
view  of  the  Erskines'  habitation,)  ^  is  it  possible 
that  you  are  none  of  you  aware  of  what  has 
oceorred  to  them  ?  (Miss  Toddles,  my  dear  Ma'am, 
m  trouble  you  to  pass  me  that  ten  of  Clubs.) 
I  promise  you,  ladies,  you  have  seen  the  last  of 
Ihem/' 


''And  no  great  loss  either ;"  cried  Miss  Toddles^ 
perceiving  that  her  patroness  was  speechless  from 
curiosity.  **But  how,  my  dear  Ma'am,  (I  am  going 
to  give  a  ffreat  card,  I  throw  out  the  knave  of  dia* 
monds  :)  how  will  you  guarantee  us  that  9  " 

"  Because  they  have  left  Apston  for  ever  !-— 
Tens ! — ^I  expected  as  much^— ace  out  against  me  I 
— ^ust  like  my  luck. — ^Mrs.  Latitat  goes  up." 

Even  above  the  confusion  of  the  game,  however, 
rose  the  shrill  interrogations  of  their  hostess. 
"  Where  were  the  Erskines  gone  ?  FF%m  did 
they  go  ;  and  vhjf  ?  What  eould  possibly  have 
become  of  them ;  and  who  had  afibrded  them  the 
means  of  departure  ?" 

All  Mrs.  Mumbleton  had  to  nnfold,  in  reply, 
was,  that  a  cart  had  carried  away  their  household 
goods  to  the  London  wagon ;  and  that  the  London 
coach  had  conveyed  away  themselves  and  children. 
They  had  paid  their  rent  to  the  last  shilling ; 
given  up  their  house  to  the  landlord, — ^taken  leave 
of  no  one  in  that  old  familiar  place  which  had  been 
to  them  crueler  and  more  hard-hearted  than  a  land 
of  strangers.  But  beyond  these  facts^  which  were 
self-evident,  the  vicar's  lady  had  noUiing  to  tell ; 
nor  could  subsequent  inquiry,  throughout  all 
Apston,  obtain  a  syllable  more.  One  thing  alone 
was  dear  to  Miss  Lavinia  :  whatever  further 
mischance  might  happen  to  her  poor  relations,  she 
should  be  denied  the  pleasure  of  witnessing.  They 
had  escaped  her.  Ajid  like  some  tyrant,  whose 
victim  evades  a  public  execution  by  dying  in  pri- 
son, she  could  scarcely  refrain  from  arraigning 
Providence  for  having  robbed  her  of  her  prey. 

But  the  explanations  denied  to  Captain  Erskine's 
obdurate  kinswoman,  need  not  be  withhdd  from 
the  reader ;  who,  if  kind  enough  to  have  afforded 
a  trifle  of  sympathy  to  his  woes,  deserves  to  be 
informed  that,  about  six  weeks  after  the  birth  of 
the  little  boy  who  had  nearly  cost  so  dear  to  his 
family,  poor  Erskine  received  one  day  a  letter  by 
the  London  post^  nearly  as  startling  as  the  one 
which  had  formerly  staggered  him  from  the  Horse 
Guards ;  with  the  additional  disadvantage,  that  the 
present  missive,  not  being  On  His  Majeg^e  Ser^ 
viee,  had  to  be  paid  for  in  hard  silver  to  the  post- 
man. 

The  letter,  which  was  from  an  old  brother  offi- 
cer, ran  as  foUows  :•— 

"  With  every  disposition,  my  dear  Erskine,  to 
make  excuses  for  the  preoccupations  of  a  family 
man,  I  must  say  I  take  it  rather  unkind,  aware  as 
you  are  of  my  permanent  address  in  town,  never 
to  give  me  a  syllable  of  tidings  of  your  welfare. 
How,  in  the  name  of  all  that  is  mysterious,  was  I 
to  find  out  that  jrou  were  settled  at  Apston  ?  I 
fandedyou  gone  out  to  Prince  Edward's  Island, 
where  I  thought  some  remnants  of  your  family 
must  still  abide ;  and  addressed  letters  to  you 
there,  which  were  duly  returned  to  me  by  the 
Post-office.  For  you  cannot  suppose  me  to  have 
forgotten  the  extent  of  my  obligations  towards 
you,  or  indifferent  to  the  welfare  of  the  man  who 
saved  my  life  in  the  Peninsula,  by  a  display  of 
gallantry  which  deserved  to  have  been  exercised 
in  behalf  of  a  less  unworthy  object.  Be  that  as  it 
may^  my  family^  with  bec(»ning  partiality,  do  not 


THE  WHEEL'OF  FORTUNE. 


11 


oonsider  it  thrown  Aws,y  ;  and  have  long  felt  to- 
wards you  an  esteem  which,  I  mutt  say,  you  have 
taken  most  ungracions  pains  to  deny  them  the 
pleasme  of  expiessing* 

^Eow%Y&t^  (land  we  tha  caprioet  of  the  blind 
goddets! )  a  £iw  months  ago,  I  happened  to  he  stay- 
ing in  a  oountry-honee  with  an  old  fogrum,  whose 
itupidity  I  thought  unpardonable,  considering  he 
bore  the  same  name  with  my  Talarera  preserver. 
On  cross-questioning  Sir  John  Erskine,  I  found 
that  he  had  the  honour  to  be  your  uncle ;  and  that 
/w,  whom  I  Bomeiimes  feared  had  been  ^^  cata- 
wampously  ohawed  up"  by  the  Yankees,  were  mar- 
ried, and  quietly  eettled  as  the  fnther  of  a  family 
at  Apston  in  Shropshire.  I  scarcely  knew  whe- 
ther to  be  glad  or  indignant,  at  finding  you  still 
alive.  I  suppose,  however,  I  must  have  been  a  little 
plfMod :  for,  the  first  leisure  moment  I  could  com- 
msitd,  I  hastened  down  to  your  retreat,  hoping  to 
find  you  surrounded  with  the  domestic  happiness 
sod  comfort  which  no  man  more  richly  deserves. 

^Alas!  my  dear  Erskine,  on  my  arrival  at 
Apston,  your  poor  wife  was  at  the  point  of  death ; 
sad  while  waiting  a  day  or  two  at  the  inn,  trust- 
ing her  recoTcry  might  justify  my  presenting  my- 
i^sgainaA  your  door^I  heard  ^m  vulgar  re- 
port enough  of  your  family  aflPairs^  to  be  satisfied 
that  FoituDA  had  treated  you  less  liberally  than 
would  have  done  her  credit.  My  visit  could  only 
be  a  tnmhleaome  intrusion. 

"In  short,  my  dear  fellow,  (for  to  thia  conclusion 
amst  we  eome  at  last,)  I  have  ever  since  been 
cndgeUing  my  brains  to  disoover  some  way  in 
which  to  better  your  condition,  without  compro- 
mising thoae  honourable  feelings  of  a  gentleman, 
with  which  you  were  always  so  eminently  en- 
dowed. My  father,  I  need  not  tell  you,  forms 
part  «f  the  great  lumbering  ear  of  Juggernaut, 
whieh  we  devotees,  who  idkw  ourselves  to  be 


crushed  under  its  wheels,  call  Grovemment.  The 
old  gentleman  has  considerable  patronage  in  his 
own  department,  and  considerable  influence  in 
the  departments  of  his  colleagues ;  and  I  feel,  of 
course,  that  X  am  doing  him  a  double  favour,  by 
enabling  him  to  discharge,  in  some  small  degree, 
the  debt  of  gratitude  of  his  scape-grace  son,  and  to 
procure  for^his  Majesty's  Civil  Service,  a  servant 
whom  his  Majesty's  military  service  po  cavalierly 
dispensed  with* 

*^  And  so,  my  dear  Erskine,  even  let  Somerset 
House  atone  for  the  wrongs  of  the  Sorse-Guards. 
The  appointment  (of  which  the  enclosed  letter 
from  mj  father's  secretary  more  exactly  explains 
the  nature)  conveys  with  it  a  comfortable  real* 
deuce,  and  a  salary  of  nearly  £600  per  annum.  By 
accepting  it,  you  will  confer  a  favour  on  my  whole 
family.  By  allowing  me  to  meet  the  difficult 
ties  of  your  removal  from  Shropshire  by  be- 
coming your  banker  fOr  your  fimt  quarter's 
salary,  a  further  obligation  on  myself.  Bo  not  be 
at  the  trouble  of  writing  me  a  long  letter  of 
thanks.  We  shall  meet  Portly ;  when  I  hope  to 
disclose  in  person  to  Mrs.  Erskine  all  the  pleasure 
I  heard  expressed  by  humble  well-wishers  of  hers, 
during  my  stay  at  Apston,  that  her  valuable  life 
was  spared  to  her  family.  In  return,  if  you  are 
disposed  to  be  over-grateful  for  my  poor  ser- 
vices, I  shall  then  be  able  to  silence  you  with  more 
detailed  allusions  to  the  eventful  hour  when,  at 
the  risk  of  life  and  limb,  your  prowess  preserved 
so  eminent  an  individual  to  his  country,  creditors, 
and  friends,  as 

**Your  very  faithful  and  obliged 

'*  Baltimork. 

'*  powdbebam  hovse,  piccadilly, 
F«6rMaryl5,1826." 

(To  be  eonlinued.) 


CHRISTMAS  TIME ! 


0!  teH  yea  lovt  the  Christvas  fire,  the  cheering 

Cbiistnus  fire. 
To  poke,  uid  stir,  and  heap  on  coals,  and  pile  the  logs 

up  higher! 
Aad  don't  yon  like  the  eirele  large  that  gathers  round 

itigliMidag, 
JUlbl  happy  iiMee  all  of  them,  with  joy  and  pleasure 

heanuog! 
^Vlien  winds  are  whistling  cold  and  keen,  in  angry  gusts 

alanning. 
And  pelts  the  sleet  in  froien  showen,— 4)  I  is  it  not 

mm  ehanaing, 
To  Mtei  in  smiling  happiness,  seeare  from  care  or  sad- 

neiB, 
And  Qwt  enjoy,  with  friends  we  /ow,  the  gnsh  of  spark- 
ling |ladnesB  ? 
0 !  yes,  we  love  thee,  "  Christmas  Time,'^  and  hail  thy 

SQnnal  ronnd, 
Wilk  erery  fceling  of  delight,  with  jey  and  Joyous  soond. 
Wft  Wy€  thy  good  old  E^i^hsh  eheer,  thy  Eagliah-hearted 

lightness, 
AjuI  wish  that  all  Old  Sogland's  sons  might  share  thy 

tktm^ghrightnett. 


But  many  poor  and  toiling  ones— the  '^pUlan  of  our 

home;' 
Will  find  BO  joy  in  ihte,  we  fear  ;  will  scarcely  know 

thou'rt  eome. 
Would  it  were  not  so,  but,  alas  !  thia  truth  is  too  rell 

known, 
That  'midst  thy  '*  joyous  retelry,*'  is  heard  the  *rfanj 

ingmoan!** 

O  !  yes,  we  love  thee,  "  Christmas  Time,"  and  fee  will 

do  our  share, 
To  make  thy  '^^nial  ^(ir/iiett  "felt  hy  all,  and  tteryidiera; 
To  spread  o'er  England's  happy  shores,  her  wtlleys  and 

her  mountains, 
A  LAsnwo  STBEAM  of  Joy  and  peace,  from  **Plei^y*s 

guying  fountains ;  ** 
To  make  her  toiling  sons  rejoioe,  and  make  them  aU 

mherit 
A  bold,  a  ^t^,  aad  hounding  heart,  and  a  veil  contented 

spirit : 
And  we  do  tmst,  when  next  thou'rt  here,  to  see  this 

Union  splendid. 
The  Rich  and  Poor  in  one  bright  link  of  FeUouhfeeling 

blended. 
Ester.  O.  G. 


12 


LORD  JEFFREYS  CONTRIBUTIONS  TO  THE  EDINBURGH  REVIEW.* 


Auoivo  the  extraordinary  pranks  ever  playing 
by  the  Old  Juggler  TVm^  none  can  seem  more 
diverting  to  those  whose  literary  memories  reach 
back  for  thirty  years,  than  to  see  the  great 
Aristarch  of  the  North,  the  incarnate  We  of 
the  once  all-powerful  EdhUmrgh  Review^  an  abdi- 
cated monarch  ;  stripped  of  every  attribute  of 
supremacy,  and  laid  on  the  dissecting  table  of 
the  modem  critics,  much  in  the  same  condition  as 
any  other  fallible  penman.  It  required  some 
courage,  and  great  magnanimity  in  Lord  Jefirey 
to  submit  to  the  ordeal  of  publication ;  yirtually 
to  plead  before  that  tribunal  of  which  he  was  once 
the  Supreme  Judge,  and  tacitly  to  submit  to  the 
award  of  those  to  whom  it  m^ht  now  be  a  malicious 
satisfaction 

To  make  the  cmel  feel  the  pangs  they  give. 
On  this' score,  we  imagine,  however,  that  the 
author  of  these  Contributions  had  little  to  appre- 
hend.    The  eminent  services  which  he  and  his 
band  of  brothers,  but  more  especially  himself,  have 
rendered  to  literature  and  science ;  and  *'  in  fami- 
liarizing the  public  mind  with  higher  speculations, 
and  sounder  and  larger  views  of  the  great  objects 
of  human  pursuit  than  had  ever   before    been 
brought  effectually  home  to  their  apprehensions, 
and  also  in  permanently  raising  the  standard,  and 
increasing  the   influence  of  all  such  occasional 
writings,'*  can  never  either  be  forgotten,  nor  lightly 
valued.    As  an  inmiense  improvement  upon  every- 
thing of  the  same  sort  that  had  been  previously 
known  or  contemplated,  either  in  this  country  or 
in  continental  Europe,  it  is,  indeed,  impossible  to 
rate  the  character  and  influence  of  The  JSdin- 
burgh  Review  too  highly.   Its  appearance,  as  soon  as 
it  had  surmounted  the  blunders  and  crudities  of  ex- 
treme and  presumptuous  youth,  constituted  a  new 
and  brighter  era  in  periodical  literature.    litera- 
ture was,  for  the  moment,  eclipsed  by  its  own  crea- 
ture, criticism.   And  for  this  we  are  persuaded  that 
the  world  is  mainly  indebted  to  Mr.  Jefhey ;  who 
from  the  first  bestowed  a  laige  share  of  his  time 
and  attention  in  working  out  the  original  happy 
idea  of  Mr.  Sydney  Smith  with  singular  ability 
and  sagacity ;  and  an  aptitude  for  the  delicate 
office,  which  we  think  could  not  have  been  found 
in  any  other  of  his  associates,  however  great  their 
intellectual  powers.    With  the  single  exception  of 
Mr.  Homer,  we  cannot  indeed  conceive  of  any  one 
of    Jeffrey's    colleagues  that    could    have  been 
trained  to  fulfil  the  onerous  duties  of  conducting 
this  great  organ  of  literature  and  opinion,  and  of 
forming  the  cement  and  animating  spirit  of  the 
confraternity.     And  it  is  but  too  probable,  that 
though  Mr.  Homer's  temper  could  have  stood  aH  the 
trials  and  assaults  made  upon  it,  his  animal  spirits 
must  have  failed.  Lord  Jeffrey  intimates  his  early 
difiiculties  when  he  says,  in  explaining  a  particular 
circumstance,  ^  I  was  but  a  Feudal  moneaoli ;  who 

*  Cofitrilmtioiu  to  The  Edinbiugh  Review,  Br  Francis 
JtOnjf  nov  one  of  the  Judges  of  the  Court  of  Sismon  in 
Scotland.    In  4  volmqeny  octuvo,    London :  Lovgrow  &  Co. 


had  but  a  slender  control  over  his  greater  Barons — 
and  really  could  not  prevent  them  from  occasionally 
waging  a  little  private  war,  upon  griefs  or  resent- 
ments of  their  own."  He  had  also  the  difficulties 
to  contend  against  which  beset  every  party  oigan 
that  affects  anything  like  independence,  and 
aspires  to  influence  opinion  and  action  beyond  the 
limits  of  its  party.  Whatever  difference  of  opinion 
may  exist  as  to  the  justice  or  propriety  of  **  the 
high  place"  which  The  Remew  at  once  assumed, 
as  if  of  right,  over  literature  and  politics,  it  is  cer- 
tain that  the  boldness  of  the  course  succeeded  for 
a  very  great  length  of  time.  Trembling  and  cowed, 
authors  appeared  at  the  critical  tribunal,  not  as  of 
yore,  to  have  their  smaller  faults  civilly  pointed 
out  and  gently  censured,  but  to  be  schooled 
in  the  principles  of  their  own  art  by  their  master, 
the  reviewer ;  who,  with  the  most  natural  air  in 
the  world,  and  quite  as  a  matter  of  course,  or  in 
virtue  of  his  ofiice,  understood  the  principles  of 
poetry  better  than  all  the  poets,  and  of  fiction  better 
than  all  the  fictionists ;  who  was,  in  short,  the 
Pope  of  literature  and  science,  throned  on  the 
seven  hills  of  Philosophy,  Politics,  History,  Phy- 
sics and  Metaphysics,  Poetry  and  Romance.  **The 
EditiburffhReneWy"  says  Lord  Jeffrey,  ^'aimed  high 
from  the  b^^inning."  It  aimed  high,  indeed  ;  at 
no  less  than  the  establishment  of  a  literary  despot- 
ism in  Europe :  in  which  it  was  fortunately  impos- 
sible to  succeed.  But  wherever  its  aims  were  just^ 
it  succeeded  abundantly ;  and,  unable  to  misdi- 
rect or  impede  the  course  of  original  genius,  or  long 
to  mislead  the  public  taste,  the  habits  of  literary 
discussion,  and  of  mental  activity  to  which  it  stimu- 
lated millions  of  minds,  again  reacting  on  tens  of 
millions,  must  have  produced  vast  and  salutary 
effects  upon  society. 

We  do  not  observe  that  Lord  Jeffrey  offers 
any  apology  for  what  some  will  regard  as  the  car- 
dinal vice  of  The  Review^  namely,  the  cool  assump- 
tion  of  the  critic's  superiority  to  the  author,  who- 
ever he  might  be  :  Byron,  Scott,  Southey,  Words- 
worth, it  was  all  the  same.  This  was,  indeed, 
the  master-policy.  To  have  given  up  this,  would 
have  been  to  descend  to  the  level  of  ordinary 
Journalists;  and  it  must  be  confessed,  that,  in 
many  instances,  this  claim  was  sustained  with 
great  ability,  and  not  unfrequently  established, 
by  views  of  important  questions  more  original  and 
profound  than  any  to  be  met  with  in  the  work 
professing  to  discuss  them. 

Neither  for  the  smaller  airs  of  petulant  assump- 
tion, or  of  a  gracious  condescension  not  over  grace- 
ful, which  the  Review  occasionally  exhibited,  do  we 
see  any  apology  offered  ;  yet  blemishes  of  this  petty 
sort  were,  we  apprehend,  among  the  most  irrita- 
ting of  the  juvenile  delinquencies  of  the  Oracle  of 
the  Northem  Literary  Confederacy ;  who  sometimes 
gave  more  offence  by  the  arrogant  manner  of  dealing 
out  counsel,  advice,  and  praise,  than  censure  could 
have  provoked.  It  is  but  a  shabby  apology,  and  one 
which,  we  are  sure,  Lord  Jeffrey  would  disdain  to 
Use,  that  the  worst  faults  of  The  EdMmrgh  Re^ 


liORD  JEFFREY'S  CONTRIBUTIONS  TO  THE  EDINBURGH  REVIEW. 


13 


ne»f  in  its  most  javesile  daysy  were  immeasarably 
distanoed  by  its  nnacrapuloiiB  and  bitterly  malig- 
nant riyal  of  the  South,  from  the  first  hour  that  it 
came  into  existence,  until  Mr.  Gifford  ceased  to 
conduct  it. 

In  a  caxeful,  but  somewhat  OTcr-anxious  pre- 
&ce.  Lord  Jefhej  states  the  reasons  which  have 
led  to  the  publication  of  this  selection  from  his 
multitudinous  contributions  during  thirty-eight 
years.  On  the  whole,  he  thinks  that,  though 
holding  the  high,  graTe,  and  responsible  station  of 
a  Judge  of  the  Court  of  Session,  he  has  no  cause 
to  be  ashamed  of  his  share  in  originating  and 
canying  on  The  Rwieto ;  to  which,  indeed,  he 
rather  looks  back  with  a  mixture  of  agreeable  and 
applausiYe  feelings ;  and  not  declining  his  share 
of  its  early  faults  or  blunders,  he  modestly  puts 
in  a  claim,  which  will  be  most  liberally  allowed, 
to  participate  in  the  merits,  which  so  vastly  out- 
balance the  defects.  Some  will  conceive  the  state- 
ment altogether  superfluous.  Who,  save  for  The 
ReneWy  out  of  Edinburgh,  and  the  few  assize 
towns  of  Scotland,  would  ever  have  heard,  or 
much  cared  about  Lord  Jefirey  more  than  any 
other  respectable  and  learned  Scottish  Judge  % — a 
set  of  persons  most  estimable  in  their  own  sphere, 
bat  of  surprisingly  little  importance  to  all  the  world, 
lawyers  included,  beyond  the  Border  ;  and  across 
the  channel,  or  the  Atlantic,  of  none  whatever. 

Lord  Jeffrey  claims  praise  for  the  unifonn  moral 
tendency  of  his  reviews;  even  those  of  the  most 
frivolous  works  which  he  condescended  to  notice  : 
and  this,  we  think,  wiU  ako  be  unhesitatingly  and 
heartily  accorded.  This  principle,  the  most  valu- 
able by  which  a  Journalist  can  be  guided,  has, 
indeed,  in  one  or  two  instances,  betrayed  him  into 
something  like  undue  severity  to  individuals.  We 
may  spedfy  the  cases  of  Bums  and  of  Swift ;  in 
which  reasoning,  in  itself  most  powerful  and  just, 
is  somewhat  haishly  applied. 

A  good  deal  of  the  preface  is  occupied  with  an 
explaoation  of  a  statement  made  by  Sir  Walter 
Scott,  in  relation  to  Lord  Jefirey,  which  appears 
in  Mr.  Lockhart's  Memoirs  of  Scott.  His  Lordship 
perhaps,  gives  the  affair  more  importance  than  it 
deserves ;  but  upon  investigation,  he  appears  to  be 
in  the  right,  though  Scott  wrote  at  the  moment, 
and  Jefi^y  looks  back  after  the  lapse  of  thirty 
busy  years. 

Our  readers  must  remember,  that  it  was  the 
Rev.  Sydney  Smith  who  first  magnanimously  re- 
solring,  wiUi  his  briefless  associates,  to  ^  adtivate 
UUratmre  upon  a  lUtle  oatmeal"  projected  from  his 
aeven-storied  attic,  the  great  political  and  literary 
organ,  which  from  1803  till  1829,  was  under 
the  management,  though  not  the  absolute  con- 
•tiol,  of  Mr.  Jeffrey.  When  the  editor — ^but 
Mr.  Jeffrey  studbusly  eschews  the  term,  editor 
—was,  in  1829,  elected  by  Whigs  and  Tories 
unanimously.  Dean  of  the  Faculty  of  Advocates, 
he  thought  it  becoming  in  the  head  of  that ''  great 
Itw  corporation"  to  resign  the  business  of  con- 
4n£ting  what  **  might  in  many  respects  be  fairly 
Jiqwaeoted  as  a  party  Journal."  For  several 
year§  after  this  period  be  wrote  notbiiig  for  Th^ 


that  have  since  elapsed,he  has  steered  clear  of  party 
politics.  His  reviews,  since  he  resigned,  have  only 
been  four.  Nor,  so  far  as  we  notice,  has  any  one  of 
these,  save  the  Life  of  Sir  James  Mackintosh,  ob- 
tained a  place  in  the  four  well-filled  volumes  be- 
fore us.  Ample  as  they  are,  they  do  not,  we  are 
told,  contain  a  third  of  the  entire  body  of  Mr. 
Jefi&ey's  able  and  varied  contributions  to  The 
Review.  They  form,  however,  we  should  imagine, 
the  cream  of  the  mass  of  his  writings ;  and  some  of 
the  erofok  temporary  articles  are  here,  as  well  as 
those  on  which  time  has  set  the  stamp  of  excellence. 

The  contributions  are  arranged  under  general 
heads,  without  any  regard  to  the  date  of  their 
appearance,  which  seems  a  truer  principle  than  a 
merely  chronological  sequence.  We  have,  I.  Ge- 
NRRA.L  Literature  and  Literary  Biographies. 
U.  Historical  Memoirs.  III.  Poetry.  IV.  Phi- 
losophy, Metaphysics,  and  Jurisprudence.  V. 
Novell^  Tales,  and  Prose  Works  of  Fiction.  VL 
General  Politics  (temporary  party  questions  being 
avoided,  as  things  that  have  perished  in  the  use ;) 
and  lastly.  Miscellaneous  Contributions.  Mr. 
Jeffrey's  elaborate  Essay,  or  rather  Treatise  upon 
the  Principles  of  Taste,  which  was  published  in 
the  Supplement  to  the  JSwyclapofdia  Britanmca^ 
but  of  which  the  germ  had  previously  appeared  in 
a  review  of  Alison's  Essays  on  the  Principles  of 
Taste,  stands  at  the  head  of  the  collection,  as  the 
most  considerable  and  sustained  literary  effort  of 
the  author.  What  a  field  this  enumeration 
opens  up  !  How  much  of  delight  and  in- 
struction must  it  recall  to  two  generations  of 
readers  !  how  many  fond  memories  of  tilings 
once  most  precious !  It  becomes  almost  an  imperti- 
nence to  specify  the  reviews  of  the  poetry  of 
Crabbe,  Scott,  and  Campbell,  Byron,  and  Bums ; 
or  of  the  works  of  De  Stael,  and  Alfieri,  and  the 
early  English  Dramatists;  the  novels  of  Scott 
and  Miss  Edgeworth,  and  other  eminent  fiction- 
ists.  There  is,  however,  we  think,  no  depart- 
ment more  rich  or  more  edifying  and  delight- 
ful to  look  back  upon  than  the  Literary  Bio- 
graphies, and  some  of  those  whicli  are  designated 
ffietarical  Memoirs,  Need  we  recall  such  fami- 
liar things  as  the  papers  on  the  Lives  of  Swift, 
Bums,  Mackintosh,  Franklin,  Heber,  Cowper, 
Curran,  Collingwood,  Reid,  Priestley,  and  Colonel 
Hutchinson  and  his  wife;  or  the  entertaining 
articles  on  Pepys,  the  Memoirs  of  the  Margravine 
of  Baireuth,  or  the  Emperor  Baber,  Madame  de 
Deffand,  or  Baron  Grimm  ?  All  of  these  may  not 
be  equal  in  value ;  yet  they  comprise  a  body  of 
papers,  in  our  opinion,  the  most  instructive  and 
interesting ;— of  Biography,  teaching  by  example, 
such  as  no  other  work  could  furnish — a  trae  Do- 
mestic and  Literary  Plutarch. 

In  the  reprints.  Lord  Jeffrey  has  acted  upon  the 
principle,  *^  what  b  writ  is  writ."  The  omissions 
are,  therefore,  mainly  of  extracts  from  the  books  re- 
viewed ;  and  the  emendations  slight,  and  nearly  all 
verbal,  intended  either  to  throw  light  on  obscuri- 
ties or  ^rrect  the  text.  Though  Lord  Jeffrey,  in 
some  few  instances,  regret^  that  b^  has.  not  em^ 
ployed  »  gentler  tone  or  foyia  of  expression,  itncl 


14 


LORD  JEFFREY'S  CONTRIBUTIONS  TO  THE  EDINBURGH  REVIEW. 


dulg«nee  than  in  fotmer  jetan,  we  observe  no 
import&nt  change  of  opinion  in  any  principle, 
whether  of  morala,  philosophy,  or  taste,  that  he  for- 
merly arowed  and  snpported.  In  that  contro- 
versy* about  words — ^for  it  is  little  else— on  Huf- 
mah  PerficHbility,  he  assumed  the  side  sanctioned 
by  reason  and  experience ;  and  he  maintains  it 
still,  against  the  Perfectibility  School,  whether  of 
England  or  France.  Had  the  Masters  or  Founders 
of  that  School  substituted  the  word  Proffreisi&n 
fbr  PerfedtibHityy  the  dispute  would  have  been  at  an 
end,  and  Mr.  Jefirey  and  they  at  one ;  and  they 
really  could  have  meant  no  more.  In  his  controversy 
with  the  Lake  Poets,  or  rather  with  Wordsworth — 
fbr  the  quarrel  with  Sonthey  was  AA  niuch  politi- 
cal as  poetical — Lord  Jeffrey  also  holds  his  original 
ground,  content  to  see  the  age  desert  him,  and  to 
remain  in  a  glorious  minority.  But  he  makes  a 
becoming  and  handsome,  and,  we  are  certain, 
satisfactory  apology  for  the  mode  of  his  condem- 
nation, when  he  says,  in  a  note  aflixed  to  the 
review  of  The  Mxcursion,  **  I  have  spoken  in  many 
places  rather  too  bitterly  and  confidently  of  the 
faults  of  Mr.  Wordsworth's  poetry ;  and  forgetting 
that,  even  on  my  view  of  them,  they  were  but  faults 
of  taste,  or  venial  self-partiality,  have  sometimes 
visited  them,  I  fear,  with  an  asperity  which  should 
be  reserved  for  objects  of  moral  reprobation.  If 
I  were  now  to  deal  with  the  whole  question  of  his 
poetical  merits,  though  my  judgment  might  not  be 
substantially  different,  I  hope  I  should  repress  the 
greater  part  of  the  vivacities  of  expression."  The 
Critic  should  have  stopped  here  ;  and,  at  all 
events,  not  again  have  wakened  the  question  of 
poetical  merits  :  at  least  we  think  so ;  probably 
from  being  of  the  number — no  small  one— of  per- 
sons who  still  **  actually  admire  this  iVhitePoe  of 
Ifytstone  ;  "  and  find  a  savage  kind  of  beauty,  and 
a  profound  moral,  even  in  Pete^  Belt.  The  Worst 
thing,  after  all,  of  those  celebrated  critiques  is,  that 
they  impugn  the  sensibility  and  judgment  of  their 
author  even  more  than  his  candour;  and  augur 
something  like  limited  imagination,  or  a  narrow 
range  of  poetical  emotion. 

Lord  Jeffrey  frankly  owns,  that  he  has  said,  in 
his  time,  "  petulant  and  provoking  things  of  Mr. 
Southey,  and  such  as  he  would  not  say  now  ;**  but 
he  is  not  conscious  that  he  was  ever  unfair  to 
Southey's  poetry.  It  may  be  freely  admitted,  that 
if  there  was  a  bias,  the  critic  was  unconscious  of  it ; 
and  also  that  Southey's  changes  of  opinion,  united 
with  his  tone  of  intolerance  and  dogmatism,  were, 
for  the  moment,  beyond  measure  provoking,  and 
even  worthy  of  chastisement.  The  only  review  of 
Southey's  poetry  reprinted  is  the  last  written ;  that 
of  Roderick  the  Last  of  the  Groths.  The  juxta-posi- 
tion  of  the  poetical  critiques  in  the  volume  is  un- 
fortunate. So  much  praise  of  Rogers  and  Moore  ; 
not  that  the  criticism  on  the  latter  is  not  acute  and 
discriminating ;  and  so  much  depreciation  of  Ro- 
dericky  and  TJie  TVhite  Doe^  and  TneExcursicHy  must 
still  be  a  little  irritating  to  some  folks. 

Instead  of  calling  or  recalling  the  attention  of 
readers  to'  what,  in  these  volumes,  is  beautiful  and 
refined  in  speculation;  poignant,  animated,  and 
graceful  in  composition;  or  noble  and  persuasive  in 


moral  aim;  we  wonldyifonrspaoeforpast  popular  and 
familiar  writings  permitted,  rather  gladly  extract, 
and  largely,  from  the  review  of  O'Drisool's  History 
of  Ireland ;  which  engc^ges  attention  from  its  great 
intrinsic  value,  and  especially  by  the  applicability 
of  the  general  reasoning  to  the  existing  relations 
between  Great  Britain  and  Ireland.  As  it  is,  we 
earnestly  recommend  this  paper,  which  appears  in 
the  fourth  volume,  to  the  attention  of  both  the  Eng- 
lish and  Irish  people,  but  especially  to  the  latter ; 
and  content  ourselves  with  this  sentence  from  the 
note  appended  to  the  reprint  of  TheRmiw :-— ^  If 
at  that  time,  [in  1827,]  I  thought  a  separation,  or  a 
dissolution  of  ^eUniOn,(forthey  are  the  same  thing,) 
a  measure  not  to  be  contemplated  but  With  horror, 
it  may  be  supposed  that  I  should  not  look  more 
charitably  on  the  proposition,  now  that  Catholic 
Emancipation  and  Parliamentary  Reform  have 
taken  away  some,  at  least,  of  the  motives  or  apo- 
logies of  those  by  whom  it  was  maintained.  The 
example  of  Scotland  [in  The  Revieuf]  is  still,  t 
think,  well  put  for  the  argument.  And  among 
the  many  who  must  now  consider  this  question,  it 
may  be  gratifying  to  some  to  see  upon  what 
grounds,  and  how  decidedly  an  opinion  was  then 
formed  upon  it,  by  one  certainly  not  much  die* 
posed  to  think  favourably  of  the  oonduot  or  pre- 
tensions of  England." There  is  another  review 

which,  upon  the  same  solid,  utilitarian  principle 
that  guides  us  in  the  above  instance,  we  would  also 
recommend  to  the  attention  of  modem  readers; 
leaving  the  gay,  the  elegant,  the  imaginative,  and 
entertaining  papers,  to  shift  for  themselves.  We 
mean  now  an  article  upon  the  nature  of  those  social, 
humane,  and  friendly  relations  which  should  Subsist 
between  Great  Britain  and  the  Free  United  States 
of  America.  This  paper  was  written  So  fkr  back 
as  1819  ;  since  which  period  the  evils  pointed  out 
have  been  heinously  aggravated  by  the  TroUopes, 
Kembles,  Marry ats,  andDickenses ;  who  have,  most 
inconsiderately,  revenged  venial  offences  offered  to 
their  own  vanity  and  self-love,  by  unjustifiable  at- 
tacks upon  a  whole  nation  :  for  personal  offence,  or 
wounded  vanity,  is  clearly  at  the  bottom  of  some 
of  it.  To  this  paper,  we  find  the  following  note  at- 
tached :  **  There  is  no  one  feeling,  having  public  con- 
cerns, for  its  object,  with  which  I  have  so  long  and 
deeply  been  impressed,  as  that  of  the  vast  impor- 
tance of  our  maintaining  friendly  relations  with 
the  frety  pofwerfdy  fnorat,  and  indUHrious  Suites  of 
Ameriea;  a  condition  upon  which  I  cannot  help 
thinking,  that  not  only  our  own  freedom  and  pros- 
perity, but  that  of  the  better  part  of  the  world,  will 
ultimately  be  found  to  be  more  and  more  depen- 
dent. I  give  the  first  placid,  therefbre,  in  this  con- 
cluding division  of  the  Work,  to  an  earnest  and 
somewhat  importunate  exhortation  to  this  effect, 
which,  I  believe,  produced  some  impression  at  the 
time,  and,  I  trust,  may  still  help  forward  the  good 
end  to  which  it  was  directed." 

One  word  more,  and  we  have  done.  Younger 
journalists,  party-writers,  and  literary  critics  of 
all  grades,  may  find  much  in  the  Spirit  and  in 
the  Art  manifested  in  these  volumes,  for  their  in- 
struction and  guidance,  and  something  also  for 
warning.    They  will  see,  that  one  of  the  greatest 


LORD  JEiTBEY'S  CONTMBOTIONS  TO  THE  EDINBURGH  REVIEW, 


15 


BiMters  of  their  profetBion,  although  he  hsB  never 
emd  nor  blondered  to  anything  like  the  extent 
of  some  of  the  humblest  and  dtdleet  of  the  craft, 
fiiidfly  in  looking  back  upon  his  brilliant  and  prot- 
petone  career,  nothing  to  regret  of  excess  on  the 
Bide  of  candour,  ^entl^aee»,  ftud  indulgence ;  but  a 


good  deal  t6  repent  in  the  arrogant  tone  and  sharp 
expression  to  which  he  has  sometimes  given  way, 
under  the  influence  of  personal  provocation,  Or 
party  feeling,  and  thd  possession  of  that  most  se« 
ductive  powe^^the  powir  «f  b«ing  gracefully  saucy 


REMINISCENCES  OF  SIR  WALTER  SCOTT,  SIR  HENRY  RAEBUBN,  &c- 


BY  JOHN  HOBJUSON. 


(ChfOinwdfirm  page  786  of  our  December  No,) 


SoMBTHiire*  oame  in  the  way,  and  my  land- 
lord desired  his  sister  to  walk  up  with  me  to  the 
Dan,  and  show  me  the  way.  We,  of  course,  fell 
into  conversation.  She  had,  she  said,  accom- 
psnied  a  lad j  from  Skye  to  Glasgow  for  two  years ; 
that  >he  could  have  been  married  there  to  a  man 
lbs  did  not  dislike;  but  she  felt  that  she  could 
neither  live  nor  die  in  the  Low  Country,  and  made 
ho  escape ;  and  added,  that  she  would  rather  die 
an  old  maid  in  her  own  country,  than  be  the  wife 
of  a  Lowland  laird.  She  was  a  handsome  girl, 
about  twenty-two  years  of  age,  and  spoke  English 
will ;  but  regretted  that  her  lady  spoke  to  her  more 
in  Gaelic  than  in  English,  otherwise  she  would 
have  improyed  her  Knglish  more.  After  receiying 
her  instructions,  and  her  hoping  to  see  me  in  the 
afternoon  safe  from  the  Glen  of  Ghosts,  we  parted. 
1  walked  along  the  eastern  range  of  the  mountainSi 
and  entered  Coruishk  from  the  south,  where  the 
waten  of  the  lake  fall  into  the  sea. 

I  walked  along  the  eastern  range  of  mountains, 
and  entsred  the  yalley  or  glen  of  Coruishk  from  the 
•oath.  The  lake  discharges  itself  into  the  sea  by 
a  considerable  descent  or  rush.  Here  I  found  a 
man  fishing.  He  had  caught  many  fine  sea-trout, 
or  herling.  On  proceeding  up  the  lake,  from  the 
fragments  of  rock  and  other  obstructions,  I  could 
not  walk  more  than  a  mile  per  hour.  The  further 
I  pff>oeeded,  the  scene  became  more  gloomy.  The 
hie&ting  of  the  goat,  the  scream  of  the  eagle, 
Undsd  to  heighten  the  solemn  grandeur  of  the 
whole.  The  sea-eagle  I  obserred  to  alight  on  one 
of  the  small  islands,  where,  it  is  probable,  she 
hnilds  her  nest  I  obserred  one  pretty  large  birch 
on  one  of  the  islands — ^the  only  shrub  I  saw.  I 
wandered  nmnd  the  lake,  which  took  me  at  least 
foor  hours.  I  observed,  in  a  kind  t>f  recess  in  the 
lock,  some  red  deer — about  five ;  and  above  them, 
on  a  rock,  several  wild  goats  of  a  reddiSh-brown 
eolonr,  and  very  smalL 

On  returning  down  to  the  mouth  of  the  loch,  I 
fonnd  a  new  ^shet :  he  had^  in  the  last  hour,  killed 
more  than  a  doaen.  I  pointed  out  six  pf  the  best 
ahout  a  pound  weight  each,  and  asked  the  price ; 
^  nid  dapcnee.  He  strung  them  through  the 
giUa  on  a  bit  of  small  oord,  and  I  carried  them 
home;  where  we  had  an  excellent  feast  of  tea  and 
^nt,  And  some  of  the  best  whisky  I  ever  tasted^ 
made  by  my  landlord. 

I  wrote  my  Journal,  adjusted  my  drawings ; 


and  on  the  following  morning  the  boat  airived^ 
I  bathed,  put  on  a  clean  shirty  had  an  excellent 
breakfast,  and  asked  what  I  had  to  pay ;  the  an- 
swer was — ^nothing.  I  had  a  small  brooch  in  my 
breast,  with  which  I  presented  the  lady  of  Skye* 
I  had  opened  a  small  leather  portmanteau,  to  pack 
some  article  into,  when  she  put  in,  with  her  own 
hands,  a  pair  of  beautiful  stockings  which  she  her^ 
self  had  knitted.  I  learned,  many  years  after- 
wards^  that  she  was  well  married,  and  had  gone  to 
reside  on  a  neighbouring  island, 

I  embarked,  and  was  landed  on  the  north  side  of 
Mull,  and  walked  to  Tobermory.  The  emigrant 
shipshad  sailed  three  days  before.  I  walked  to  Arro% 
where  there  b  an  old  castle  and  village.  I  crossed 
over  the  Sound  to  Ardtomish,  drew  and  examined 
the  ruin,  returned  by  the  same  boat,  and  walked 
down  to  Duart.  The  castle  is  built  on  a  rock  ;  it  is 
very  fine,  and  then  contained  a  small  garrison  of 
from  twelve  to  twenty  soldiers.  They  were  very 
civil,  and  directed  me  to  a  Small  public-house,  where 
I  was  very  comfortably  accommodated^  and  pro* 
ceeded  next  day  to  make  drawings. 

Duart  was  the  stronghold  of  the  Madeans^  and  is 
the  scene  of  The  Ihmify  L^gmid^  and  of  Campbell  s 
ballad  of  Helen  of  Lorn.  After  having  made  my 
drawings  on  land,  I  procured  a  boat,  and  rowed 
myself  to  the  rock  where  Maclean  abandoned  his 
lady  to  perish,  and  made  a  drawing  of  the  castle 
from  this  point.  An  old  lady  at  the  inn  told  me 
the  tale  pretty  much  in  the  way  it  has  since  been 
given  to  the  world ;  except  that  the  hero  who  re- 
lieved the  lady  from  the  rock,  was  either  warned  in 
a  dream,  or  saw,  by  the  power  of  the  second-sight^ 
the  figuro  of  a  lady  abandoned  there ;  and  arrived 
barely  in  time  to  save  her*  The  rock  is  dry  at 
low,  and  covered  at  high  water. 

fVom  Duart  t  sailed  to  ObaUi  and  visited  Dun- 
stafinage  and  the  Pictish  city  of  Beregonium, 
where  I  could  observe  nothing  like  the  regular  re- 
mains of  an  ancient  city.  The  desoriptions  of  it 
by  the  Ettrick  Shepherd  are  all  exaggeration ;  but 
the  surrounding  scenery  is  magnificent.  I  visited 
the  Fall  of  Connel,  where,  during  the  flood-tide, 
the  watftr  flows  inland  over  a  rock,  where  the  pass 
is  narrow,  and  fills  a  large  baun  inside.  When 
the  ebb  commences,  the  water  below  retreats  muoh 
faster  than  it  can  be  discharged  from  the  basin 
above,  which,  falling  leisurely,  forms  a  beautiful 
cascade.    I  walked  up  the  banks  of  the  river  Awe, 


*  U  will  be  Tcoollected  that  we  left  Mr.  Morrison  in  the  Isle  of  3k ye,  in  the  midBt  of  his  Reminiscences  of  Scott,  nlating 
lu  idvntaTes  in  a  Hishland  Tonr  forty  years  Bince.*-^.  T.  M, 


16 


REMINISCENCES  OF  SIR  WALTER  SCOTT. 


to  the  lake,  and  along  its  margin,  which  exhibits 
many  grand  viewsy  with  Ben  Cmacban  towering  to 
the  north.  I  fell  in  with  an  old  fisherman  who 
lired  on  an  island  in  the  lake,  and  kept  a  public- 
house.  He  promised  xne  good  fare  if  I  woiUd  em- 
bark with  him,  which  I  did,  and  fared  well.  The 
island  was  stocked  with  rabbits,  and  he  had  taken 
some  very  fine  trout  in  the  lake.  The  house  was 
kept  by  his  daughter,  who  had,  for  some  time,  been 
a  serrant  in  Gla^  w.  She  understood  cookery,  and 
I  had  stewed  rabbit  and  fried  trout  to  dinner.  I 
stayed  here  three  days.  The  fisherm&n,  who  rented 
the  island,  provided  me  with  a  small  boat,  in  which  I 
sailed  about  by  myself,  yiuting  the  fine  scenery  on 
the  island  and  the  shores  of  the  lake.  I  ascended  Ben 
Cruachan,  which  is4400  feet  in  height ;  and  the  day 
being  good,  enjoyed  a  most'  extensive  view :  Loch- 
aber  and  Glenordiy  in  gloomy  grandeur  to  the  north 
and  east ;  and  to  the  west  the  magnificent  scenery 
of  Morven ;  the  rich  island  of  Lismore  and  Ben 
Awe  in  the  foreground  ;  the  Sound  of  Mull,  and, 
over  and  farther  to  the  west  of  Mull,  many  other 
islands  of  fantastic  figure ;  the  Dutchman's  Cap ; 
Tiree,  famous  for  its  breed  of  ponies ;  lona ;  Scarba ; 
Jura  with  its  five  Paps,  as  the  five  mountains  are 
termed ;  with  Colonsay  and  Isla,  to  the  south-west. 
It  happened  to  be  the  time  of  the  tide  when  the 
whirlpool  of  Corryvreckan  is  in  motion,  for  I  could 
plainly  observe  the  white  foam  of  the  troubled 
waters,  while  all  the  surrounding  ocean  appeared 
**  one  burnished  sheet  of  living  gold."  I  made  a 
bird's-eye  drawing  to  the  nortii,  east,  south,  and 
west,  and  forgot  that  I  had  to  descend  by  a  peril- 
ous route.  The  sun  was  sinking  in  the  sea  when 
I  began  to  descend.  I  found  my  little  boat,  and 
regained  the  island  by  moonlight  My  bill  was 
sixpence  for  breakfast,  and  the  same  for  dinner 
and  tea,  besides  the  whisky,  a  little  of  which  was 
necessary,  as  brandered  trout  formed  one  dish  at 
every  meal. 

I  proceeded  towards  Inverary, — ^passing  through 
the  romantic  village  of  Cladich.  The  whole  road 
to  Loch  Fyne  is  grand.  I  rested,  and  drew  so 
many  views  that,  although  the  distance  was 
short,  it  was  late  before  I  reached  the  inn  at  In- 
verary.  The  accommodation  was  excellent ;  but 
the  bill  of  one  day  here  would  have  kept  me  a  week 
on  the  island,  and  the  fare  was  not  bettor. 

I  varied  the  ordinary  route,  and  sailed  down  Loch 
Fyne,  where  I  fell  in  with  a  boat  about  to  sail  for 
the  Island  of  Arran.  I  embarked,  and  landed  in 
the  port  of  Loch  Ranza;  than  which,  with  its  old 
castle,  I  had  seen  nothing  finer.  I  rambled  about 
for  a  day,  visiting  the  Torruidyan,  a  high  rocky 
mountain,  where  millions  of  seafowl  build  their 
nestSy  and  where  my  guide,  (the  same  who  had  at- 
tended Professor  Playfair,)  pointed  out  a  junction 
of  the  granite  with  the  schistus.  Next  day,  I  tra- 
velled over  a  wild  and  high  range  of  grand  moun- 
tains to  Glen  Rosa.  Near  the  summit,  I  was  over- 
taken by  a  thunder-storm  and  heavy  rain.  I  got 
under  a  grand  fiat  stone,  or  rather  cave,  from  which 
I  heard  the  thunder  and  saw  the  lightning  with 
great  eiFeot.  I  felt  a  disagreeable  putrid  smell, 
^hlch  was  i^ocounted  for  wl^en  I  observed  two  fo7tej» 
pw»lng  Inia  th«  c<iv«  j  on?  of  th?m  y wi?<>  sQinC' 


thing  in  its  mouth,  like  a  hare  or  muirfowl ;  they 
likely  had  young.  Glen  Rosa,  in  terrific  grandeur, 
is  the  next  thing  to  Coruishk  in  Skye ;  but,  in  point 
of  beauty,  with  ite  woods  skirting  the  glen,  greatly 
superior.  The  lake  is  wanting.  At  the  bottom  of 
the  valley  are  some  fine  old  Scoto  firs;  and 
from  thence  to  Brodick  b  Culshant,  or  the  Field 
of  Enchantment. 

Next  day,  I  ascended  Goatfell,  the  view  from 
which  is  very  extensive  :  the  whole  range  of  the 
West  Highlands,  with  Ben  Nevis,  Ben  Cruachan, 
Ben  Lomond  ;  the  mountains  of  Gralloway,  to  the 
south-east ;  the  whole  of  Ayrshire ;  Ailsa  Craig  ; 
Ireland  in  the  distance ;  the  whole  of  Kintyre, 
spread  like  a  map,  and  at  no  great  distance ;  with 
aJl  the  Hebrides  south  of  Tiree  and  MulL 

I  descended  by  the  Glen  of  Corrie,  a  most  ter- 
rific scene ;  and  in  the  evening  arrived  at  Brodick. 
The  old  castle  of  the  Boyds  is  kept  in  good  order, 
and  occupied  by  the  Duke  of  Hamilton's  factor  or 
land-steward.  Next  day  I  sailed  for  Greenock 
and  Glasgow,  and  on  to  Dumfiries,— >having  been 
on  my  Highland  tour  three  weeks :  my  whole  ex* 
penditure  five  pounds  or  thereby. 

Sir  Henry  Raebum  regretted  to  me  that  Sir 
Walter  had  declined  to  sit  to  him.  ^'  The  portrait 
I  have  already  painted,"  he  said,  **  has  a  heavy 
look.  There  are  three ;  but  two  are  copies,  al- 
though I  wished  him  to  sit  for  them  all.  But 
he  is  a  restless  sitter.'* — **  Not  only  myself,"  said 
Sir  Walter,  on  the  other  hand,  ^^but  my  very 
dog  growls  when  he  observes  a  painter  preparing 
his  palette."—''  I  will  undertake,"  said  I,  to  Sir 
Henry,  ^  to  prevail  with  him  to  sit,  provided  I  am 
to  be  present  with  the  utter  s  leave,  and  permitted, 
by  way  of  lesson,  to  copy  the  work  in  certain 
stages." 

**  You  shall  not  only  have  my  leave  to  be  pre- 
sent," said  Sir  Henry,  "  but  I  may  paint  your  own 
head  into  the  bargain."  I  mentioned  to  Sir  Walter 
that  it  would  be  conferring  on  me  a  most  particular 
favour,  as  I  had  conventioned  with  Sir  Henry 
Raebum  that  I  should  be  present  at  all  the  sit- 
tings, if  he  was  not  averse  to  the  arrangement. 
**  I  have  been  painted  so  often,"  said  he, ''  that  I 
am  sick  of  the  thing ;  especially  since,  with  the 
exception  of  Raebum's  old  portrait,  I  can  only  see 
BO  many  old  shoemakers  or  blue-gown  beggars. 
Even  lAwrence,  whose  portrait  is  in  progress,  has 
been  thinking  more  of  the  poet  than  the  man. 

The  poet's  eye  in  a  fine  frenzy  rolling, 

is  what  he  is  aiming  at ;  but  I  anticipate  a 
fi&ilure.  Raebum's  portrait  looks  down,  and  Sir 
Thomas's  too  much  up.  I  think  that  something 
between  the  two  would  be  better ;  I  hate  attitudes. 

^My  complimento  to  Sir  Henry,  and  say  that 

I  will  be  glad  to  see  him  here  to-morrow,  to  break- 
fast :  it  is  not  a  court  day.  You  will  accompany 
him,  of  course."  This  was  after  dinner.  I  called 
at  St.  Bernards  on  the  following  morning,  and  found 
the  artist  walking  in  his  ga^en.  He  was  much 
gratified  with  my  success,  and  prepared  to  go  with 
me  to  Castle  Street. 
•*  liifl  time,"  s»i4  Ue,  ^*  us  well  *«  my  Qwn,  is  ^ 


REMINISCENCES  OF  SIR  WALTER  SCOTT. 


17 


roucli  taken  up,  that  I  seldom  see  him.  I  will  send 
an  apology  to  all  my  sitters  to-day." 

^  You  will  do  well/'  said  I ;  '^for  he  mentioned 
that  if  no  nnlooked-for  thing  came  in  the  way,  he 
would  accompany  you  to  York  Place>  and  have  the 
first  sitting.'* 

After  hreakfast>  they  sat  two  hours  conversing. 
It  was  interesting  to  hear  two  men,  the  first  and 
most  acoompliahed  in  their  seyeral  departments  as 
poet  and  painter,  discoursing  on  different  effects 
and  departments  of  their  art. 

"I  wish,"  said  Sir  Walter,  "that  you  would 
let  as  haTe  a  little  more  finishing  in  the  hack- 
gionnds.  Sir  Thomas  Lawrence,  I  understand, 
employs  a  landscape  painter." — **  Of  that  I  do 
not  approve/'  said  Sir  Henry.  "  Landscape 
in  the  hackground  of  a  portrait  ought  to  he  no- 
thing more  than  the  shadow  of  a  landscape :  ef- 
fect is  all  that  is  wanted.  Nothing  ought  to  divert 
the  eye  from  the  principal  object — ^the  face  ;  and 
it  ought  to  be  something  in  the  style  of  Milton  s 
Death: 

The  other  shape,  if  shape  it  might  be  oall'd 
Thalalu^  had  none,  or  substance  might  be  call'd 
Tkit  flhadow  seem'd,  for  each  seem'd  either. 

I  am  at  present  painting  an  admiral,  and  had  some 
thought  of  asking  my  friend,  the  minister  of  Dud- 
diflgston,  to  paint  me  a  sea ;  but,  on  second 
thought^  I  am  afraid  that  Mr.  Thomson's  sea 
might  pat  my  part  of  the  picture  to  the  blush." 

**  We  will  proceed  to  the  first  sitting,"  said  Sir 
Walter;  <'  and  I  think  that  I  shaU  be  able  to  find 
you  a  customer  for  the  picture." — *^  You  may,  for 
a  copy,  Sir  Walter  ;  but  the  portrait  that  I  am 
now  pamting  is  for  myself,  although  it  may  find 
its  way,  in  time,  into  your  own  family."  A  copy 
of  this  portrait  was  painted  for  Lord  Montague ; 
but  the  original  is  in  the  possession  of  the  painter^s 
only  son,  Henry  Raebum,  Esq.,  of  St.  Bernards. 

During  the  painting  of  the  portrait  Iattended,and 
throughout  its  progress  made  many  studies.  After 
two  or  three  sittings,  Sir  Walter  was  highly  pleased. 
"  I  wish  none  but  your  portraits  of  me  were  in 
exiatenoc/'  said  Sir  Walter.  "  A  portrait  may  be 
strikii^ly  like,  and  yet  have  a  very  disagreeable 
effect."  This  portrait  is  the  beau-ideal  of  his  ap- 
pearance. The  painter  has  seized  the  happy  mo- 
ment ;  and  it  is,  by  far,  the  best  likeness  that  has 
ever  been  paint^.  A  small  head  in  wax,  by  John 
Hennmg,  done  about  1807,  of  which  I  have  a  copy, 
is  also  a  capital  likeness. 

I  was  preparing  to  go  to  London ;  and,  being 
uoioos  to  see  Sir  Thomas  Lawrence,  both  Sir 
Walter  and  Sir  Henry  gave  me  cards  of  intro- 
duction. I  was  particularly  anxious  to  see  the  ar- 
rugement  of  his  palette.  <'  I  will,"  said  Sir  Walter, 
*  desire  that  &vour  for  you.  I  think  that  you 
^  find  doable  the  number  of  tints,  as  you  term 
it,  that  are  on  Raebum's  palette." 

On  arriving  in  London,  I  delivered  Sir  Walter  s 
wte,  and  was  asked  to  breakfest  next  day.  Sir 
Henry  Raebum's  card  I  still  retain.  "With  respect 
to  the  arrangement  of  my  palette,"  said  Sir  Thomas, 
"which  your  friend  Sir  Walter  desires  me  to  ex- 
hibit, you  shall  see  it  immediately,"  He  was,  in 
Uher  respects,  most  polite.    Ho  showed  me  Sir 

»0L.  XJ.— J«0.  CXXI. 


Walter's  portrait^  which  was  in  progress.  I  knew 
it,  and  that  was  all ;  it  had  an  afiFected  cast-up  of 
the  eye ;  in  fiict,  he  had  determined  to  make  him 
a  poet.  He  asked  my  opinion,  which  I  gave  him 
frankly,  and  which  he  received  with  great  good 
nature.  "Sir  Walter,  when  he  looks  up,  half 
shuts  his  eyes ;  yours  are  too  open." — ^"  You  are 
quite  correct  in  your  remark ;  and  I  will  endeavour 
to  attend  to  it."  On  leaving,  Sir  Thomas  gave  me 
a  card  to  attend  his  lecture  in  the  Royal  Academy ; 
but  I  was  obliged  to  leave  London  soon  after,  and 
did  not  again  see  him. 

In  the  time  of  breakfast.  Sir  Thomas  spoke  much 
of  Mr.  Raebum  and  his  style  of  painting.—"  He 
ought  to  be  richer  than  I  can  be  ;  for  he  can  paint 
three  pictures  for  my  one.  His  prices  are  much 
too  small.  His  portrait  of  the  Highlander  M*Nab, 
is  the  best  representation  of  a  human  being  that  I 
ever  saw.  Mr.  Raebum's  style  is  freedom  itself." 
Su*  Thomas  kindly  offered  to  give  me  an  intro- 
duction to  the  private  collection  of  any  of  his  ac- 
quaintance in  London. 

I  had  been  in  London  to  give  certain  evidence 
respecting  some  survey  that  I  had  made  with  Mr. 
Telford ;  which  having  finished,  I  returned  to  Edin- 
burgh by  sea. 

Having  afterwards  business  at  Stirling,—"  When 
you  are  in  thatneighbourhood,"  saidSirWalter,  "go 
to  Castle  Campbell,  and  make  me  some  drawings  of 
certain  parts  that  I  will  describe  to  you  in  writing  ; 
butdraweveryodd-lookingobjectthat  comes  in  your 
way.  The  titie  of  Castle  Campbell  will  please  you. 
The  castie  of  Gloomy  on  the  water  of  Grief,  in  the 
glen  of  Carey  and  in  the  parish  of  Dolour.  Be  par- 
ticular about  an  old  garden  door,  at  which  your 
friend  John  Knox  held  forth  a  sermon  to  the  Duke 
of  Argyle,  and  a  great  multitude.  Aigy le  was  then 
the  owner ;  the  castie  was  taken  and  burnt  down 
by  Montrose." 

On  my  return,  he  was  much  pleased  with  my 
portfolio.  The  country  around  Dollar  is  highly 
picturesque.  The  Falls  of  the  Devon,  the  Cauldron 
Linn,  and  Rumbling  Brig,  are  in  the  trae  Salva- 
tor  style.  Ckckmannan  Tower,  with  Stirling  and 
the  wild  Loch  Katrine  scenery— the  country  of 
the  Macgregors— are  in  the  distance.  Sir  Walter 
regretted  that  I  had  not  proceeded  on  to  explore 
the  whole  range.—"  But,"  said  he, "  there  is  a  good 
time  coming." 

I  mentioned  to  him  that  I  had  an  invitation  to 
paint  some  pictures  in  Liverpool,  and  had  received 
letters  from  General  Dirom  to  Dr.  Macartney  and 
other  Galloway  gentiemen  residents  in  that  city. 
— "  I  will,"  said  Sii*  Walter,  "  strengthen  these  let- 
ters by  one  to  my  friend  Mr.  Roscoe."* 

On  presenting  this  letter  to  Mr.  Roscoe,—"  You 
must,"  said  that  gentieman,  "be  a  great  favourite 
with  Sir  Walter  ;  and  I  think  that  you  would  be 
highly  gratified  by  reading  his  letter.  I  wish  to  show 
it  to  some  friends,  to  whom  it  will  have  the  effect  of 
an  introduction  in  your  favour ;  but  I  will  return  it 
to  you,  to  retain  by  way  of  heir-loom."  I  was 
much  strock  with  the  venerable  appearance  of  Mr. 
Roscoe,  and  his  kind,  interesting  manner ;  and  not 

♦  This  refers  to  tho  letter  of  introductiou  printotl  in  tU« 
i  first  part  of  th«  Reminiscencefc— JS?.  2\  M, 


19 


REMINISCENCES  OF  SIR  WALTER  SCOTT- 


a  little  snrpriBed  to  hear  him  speak  the  hroadLan- 
caehire  dialect.  He  gare  me  a  card  of  introdaction 
to  the  Atheneum  Reading  Rooms  and  library ; 
and,  in  particular,  to  a  part  of  the  library  that 
onoe  belonged  to  himself,  which  required  a  parti- 
cular introduction. — ^  Come,"  said  he,  ^  any  even- 
ing to  tea.  I  am  always  at  home."  Some  days 
afterwards,  he  returned  me  Sir  Walter  s  letter, 
saying, — *^  It  is  of  more  value  to  you  than  to  any 
one  else." 

I  resided  more  than  a  year  in  Liveipool,  and 
made  some  short  trips  into  North  Wales,  renewing 
my  old  acquaintance  with  its  mountains  and  ruins. 
Br.  Macartney  had  introduced  me  to  Mr.  Blundel 
at  Ince,  that  I  might  examine  his  collection,  famous 
for  its  four  Richard  Wilsons.  "  Do  not,"  said 
the  doctor,  **  be  surprised  that  he  turns  you  out  of 
the  house,  which  has  nearly  happened  to  myself. 
^'I  will  ensure  good  reception,"  said  Mrs.  Macartney, 
**  and  indorse  your  document ;  for  Mr.  Blundel, 
with  all  his  foibles,  is  a  bit  of  a  knight- errant." 
I  was  received  with  much  courtesy  by  Mr.  Blundel. 
He  was,  when  I  entered,  in  conversation  with  a 
person  dressed  in  black,  who  seemed  forcibly  to  de- 
tain him.  He  broke  away  from  him,  half  saying 
to  himself,  '^  These  old  fools,  there  is  no  end  to  their 
trifling  nonsense.  That,"  said  Mr.  Blundel,  *'is 
my  family  priest :  a  very  good  person  in  his  way ; 
but  there  is  no  end  to  his  talking.  There,"  con- 
tinued he,  ^is  a  catalogue  of  the  pictures  and 
marbles.  I  am  a  member  of  the  Roxburgh  Club, 
and  printed  my  own  catalogue.  A  servant  will 
show  you  all  the  rooms,  and  then  leave  you  to 
yourself;  which  is,  I  suppose,  your  own  wish. 
You  are  to  make  no  sketches,  or  even  memoran- 
dums. Dinner  will  be  ready  at  two  o'clock — a  cold 
one,  to  be  sure  ;  for  it  is  our  Lent ;  but  you  shall 
receive  all  the  indulgence  in  my  power."  He  rang 
the  bell,  and  ordered  wine  and  cake  to  be  placed  on 
a  side-table,  and  so  left  me. 

There  are  many  good  pictures,  particularly  by 
Gaspar  Poussin,  and  much  indifferent  matter;  but 
the  pictures  by  Richard  Wilson  are  magnificent. 
They  are, — PhaOim  ashing  leave  to  draw  the  Char- 
iot of  the  Sun,  which  would,  in  my  opinion,  be  better 
without  the  figures  ;  a  Distant  view  of  Borne; 
Tivoli;  and  another.  The  figures  in  the  three  last, 
put  in  by  Wilson's  own  hand,  are  simple,  and 
accord  well  with  the  landscape.  The  skies  and 
back-grounds  of  all  these  pictures  have  suffered 
greatly  by  a  foolish  conceit  of  placing  them  in 
panels  on  the  walls  of  the  room,  from  which  they 
have  been  much  injured  by  the  damp. 

There  is  a  temple  detached  for  the  marbles.  Most 
of  the  figures  are  copies,  or  modem  manufacture 
of  the  antique,  and  are  about  500  in  number. 

At  two  o'clock  I  was  summoned  to  dinner ;  a 
table  was  placed  in  the  middle  of  the  largest  pic- 
ture-room, with  a  cover  for  one  only.  Several  ser- 
vants were  in  waiting,  and  Mr.  Blundel  himself 
was  halting  round  the  room,  being  lame.  ''  I  am 
not  permitted,"  said  he,  "  to  eat  animal  food ;  but 
that  is  no  reason  why  you  should  be  restricted  ; 
here  is  fish  and  fowl,  potted  and  preserved  in  dif- 
ferent modes."  He  opened  a  pot  which  contained 
woodcock,  and  was  a  most  excellent  dish.     There 


was  cold  venison  pie,  tongue,  puddings,  &c* ;  but,  if  t 
remember  right,  neither  beef  nor  mutton.  He  stood 
like  the  physician  over  Grovemor  Sancho,  pointing 
out  and  recommending  the  different  dishes.  But  I 
was  more  fortunate  than  poor  Sancho ;  for  I  was 
not  only  allowed,  but  pressed  to  eat.  After  the 
eatables  had  been  removed,  he  drank  a  glass  of 
wine,  which  he  had  also  done  during  dinner.  ^  The 
bottles  are  on  the  table,"  said  he ;  ^  you  may  make 
your  observations,  and  return  occasionally  and  in- 
spire yourself  with  a  glass.  I  am  obliged  to  leave 
you ;  remember  that  money  offered  to  my  servant, 
I  consider  an  insult.  They  will,  I  hope,  decline  it^ 
and  inform  me  if  it  is  offered.  Come  back  at  any 
time  you  wish,  warning  me  by  a  note  left  at  the 
George  Hotel,  Liverpool."  He  left  me,  but  soon 
returned,-— *<  I  have,'*  said  he,  '*  still  an  hour  to 
spare;  and  after  your  wine  I  ^wdll  join  you  in  a  cup 
of  coffee."  I  pointed  out  to  him  that  the  pictures 
had  suffered  much  from  damp  by  their  position 
on  the  wall ;  nor,  in  case  of  fire,  could  they  be 
readily  removed.  "  I  will,"  said  he,  "  have  tiiem 
placed  in  portable  frames  immediately ;  and  am 
much  obliged  to  you  for  the  hint.  I  have  just 
heard,"  said  he,  "  that  a  member  of  our  Roxbui^h 
Club  has  been  diot  by  a  person  of  the  name  of  Steu- 
art.  Do  you  know  anything  of  the  parties." — **  I 
knowBoswell,  and  passed  some  days  with  him  when 
on  a  visit  to  Mr.  Oswald  of  Auchincruive,  while  I  was 
making  a  survey  of  that  estate.  He  was  then  a  good 
Whig ;  but  turned  his  coat,  received  a  pension,  and 
contributes  to  a  newspaper  of  infamous  charac- 
ter; not  infamous  because  it  is  Tory,  but  because 
it  is  filled  with  libels,  the  worst  of  which  have,  it  is 
reported,  been  supplied  by  Sir  Alexander  Boswell ; 
and  if  ever  the  finger  of  God  was  visible  in  the  death 
of  one  person  and  the  preservation  of  another,  it  was 
in  the  affair  you  mention." — ^'I  am  astonished,"  said 
he,  ^  that  Sir  Alexander  should  have  gone  out  with 
such  a  person  below  his  own  rank."  "  He  is,'* 
said  I,  '<  a  better  man  than  himself ;  and  if  that  can 
be  a  feather  in  his  cap,  is  descended  from  the  kings 
of  Scotland.  Have  you  not  observed  that  the  Earl 
of  Rosslyn,  who  is  Mr.  Steuart's  cousin,  was  also 
his  second." — ^  Of  these  circumstances,"  said  he, 
"I  was  ignorant.  That  alters  the  case."  Sometime 
afterwards  I  forwarded  Mr.  Steuart's  trial  to  Ince. 
«*  I  understand,"  contmued  Mr.  Blundel,  "that  Sir 
Walter  Scott  supports  the  same  paper,  THie  Beacon^ 
which  I  sometimes  read." — ^**  He  no  doubt  supports 
the  paper  the  same  as  he  supports  Blaekwood'a 
Magaziney  for  its  Tory  principles  ;  but  Sir  Walter 
is  incapable  of  writing  a  single  line  to  the  injury 
of  any  man's  character." — ^**I  am  happy  to  hear  you, 
a  Whig,  say  so.  I  am  a  great  admirer  of  Sir  Walter 
Scott,  and  have  many  of  his  letters.  I  hate  libels, 
and  hope  that  he  will  discontinue  his  support.** 
Sir  Walter  did  withdraw  his  support  from  T^e 
Beacon  soon  afterwards. 

On  returning  to  Edinburgh,  I  showed  Sir  Walter 
some  drawings  that  I  had  made  on  stone — a  view 
of  Hermitage.  "Select,"  said  he,  "from  your 
portfolio,  six  castles,  and  execute  them  in  the  same 
style,  with  a  sheet  of  letter-press  at  a  guinea  the 
book,  and  I  will  sell  you  fifty  copies.  Fall  about  it 
immediately,  and  show  me  the  impressions  as 


HEMINISCENCES  OP  SIR  WALTER  SCOTT. 


19 


they  are  thrown  off.**  I  selected  six  old  castles, 
and  mihmitted  to  him  the  list,  Hennitage 
CasUfiyliddesdale;  Caerlayerock,  Domfries-shiie ; 
Threare,  the  Castle  of  the  Black  Douglas,  in 
Galloway ;  Bruce  Castle,  in  the  Island  of  Rath- 
lln,  Conntr  Antrim  ;  Doart  on  the  Sound  of 
Mnll ;  and  Ellandonan,  in  Ross-shire  ;  in  all 
BIX,  with  a  sheet  of  letter-press  description.  *^  They 
are  all  veiy  good,"  said  ISr  Walter;  "and,  with 
respect  to  your  descriptions,  I  hare  found  very 
little  amendment  necessary.  The  price  must  be  one 
guisea ;  and  I  shall  be  able  to  dispose  of  26  or 
maybe  HO  copies.  Constable  has  promised  to  lend 
Kii  irtsistanoe,  and  will  publish  for  you  if  neces- 
sszy.  Go  on,  and  do  not  allow  the  business  to  rest 
one  day."  I  printed  125  copies^  which  were  all 
sold  in  ten  days.  He  pressed  me  to  publish  an- 
other series ;  but  I  did  not  like  to  draw  too  much  on 
the  good-nature  of  my  friends,  for  the  sales  were  all 
priTste.  Printing  on  stone  was  then  in  its  infancy 
in  Edinbuzgh ;  and  indeed  is  so  still,  with  respect 
to  landscape;  and  the  impressions  by  no  means 
pleased  me. 
One  morning,  while  at  breakfast,  a  woman  called, 

complsining  that  Maida,  Sir  Walter  s  stag^hound, 
had  bit  her  child.  '^And  did  notlgive  yousomething 
iaadwmctohelpto'cover  it  l^said  Sir  Walter.  **You 
didio;  but  I  am  told  that  if  the  dog  is  not  hanged, 
the  bairn  will  go  mad."— *^  I  do  not  think  that 
the  crime  deseryes  death,  as  the  child  is  not  yet 
dead ;  bat  Maida  shall  be  banished ;  and  if  the 
child  die,  he  shall  suffer,  which  is  the  law  of  the 
land ;  and  there  is  some  more  money." 

Maida  was  an  ill-natured  tyke,  and  no  favourite 
with  me.  He  once  attacked  me.  I  met  him  in  a 
nanow  path ;  and  he  stood  in  the  middle,  disputing 
my  paoage.  Having,  by  good  luck,  a  measuring- 
pole  in  my  hand,  about  eight  feet  in  length,  I  pre- 
pared to  make  my  passage  good.  If  I  had  turned 
my  back,  he  would  have  been  on  me  immediately, 
I  adv&need,  and  with  my  good  ash  pole  hit  him  a 
whack  along  the  ribs,  on  which  he  gave  a  fearful 
howl,  and  fled.  So  much  for  the  courage  of  this 
Highland  brute.  On  telling  it  to  his  master,  he 
would  not  believe  it.  •*  I  will  again  defend  my- 
self in  your  presence ;  indeed,  I  will  make  believe 
to  attack  you,  and  you  shall  see  whether  this 
Highland  bear  of  yours  will  be  bold  and  faithful 
m  defending  his  very  kind  andover-partial  master." 
"  I  do  not  entertain  Uie  smallest  doubt  of  his  courage 
and  affection  ;  but  it  may  be  as  well  not  to  put  it 
to  too  severe  a  test." 

One  morning  I  heard  a  dog  howling  in  distress. 
On  going  to  the  place,  I  found  Maida,  who  had 
^  hunting  hares ;  and  on  leaping  a  paling,  was 
^*«gled  by  the  hind-legs,  and  could  not  relieve 
'"^eelt  At  breakfast,  I  mentioned  the  ciroum- 
f^  'if  Maida's  distress.  "  And  did  you  relieve 
i»«i?"— "Idid  not  think  it  at  aU  safe,  as  he  holds 
tteuagrudgt."  «  Good  heavens  1"  exclaimed  Sir 
«nr''  "  *^«  poor  brute's  legs  may  be  broken."— 

Do  not  be  alarmed ;  I  sent  Tam  Pordie  to  his 
wef.  And  soon  after  the  dog  made  his  appear- 
ance, much  fatigued,  and  the  skin  peeled  from  his 
hiad  legs. 

After  this,  I  did  not  again  see  Sir  Walter  tiU 


after  Lady  Scott's  death,  and  the  Castle  Street  es- 
tablishment had  been  broken  up ;  from  whence  he 
had  removed  to  a  furnished  lodging  in  Castle 
Street,  as  I  was  informed.  I  met  him,  by  cbance, 
on  the  street,  and  he  invited  me  to  come  to  break- 
fast on  the  following  morning  in  Walker  Street. 
I  congratulated  him  on  living  in  so  el^ant  and 
quiet  a  street.  «  Yes,"  he  said ;  "  but  as  the  lad 
said  who  went  a-wooing,  when  congratulated  by 
the  lass  on  his  smart  appearance  on  hoxseback,*-' 
*  The  horse  that  I  ride  on 
Is  Sandy  Wilson's  mare.' 
Miss  Blair  has  been  so  good  as  to  lend  me  her 
house  while  she  is  absent." 

A  French  gentleman  was  at  breakfast^  "who 
brought  him  in  a  present,  a  copy  of  his  poetical 
works,  from  Galignani,  I  think.  He  examined 
the  prints^  and  said  the  work  was  neatly  got  up ; 
and  referred  to  me.  I  said  that  I  thought  the 
work  much  inferior  to  our  own.  *^  It  is  well  that 
theFrenchmandoes  not  understandEnglish;  other- 
wise you  might  be  in  a  scrape." 

He  invited  me  to  return  to  dinner,  and  said  he 
would  ask  Mr.  Campbell,  who  made  a  third.  He  de- 
sired Allister  Dhu  to  give  us  Macrimmon  s  Lament, 
first  in  Graelic,  and  then  a  stanza  in  English.  I  never 
have  seen  him  more  pleasant  company.  "  The  Gae- 
lic," said  he,  *^  is  infinitely  more  musical  than  my 
own  words."  Sir  Walter,  at  this  time,  talked  of  the 
lightness  of  heart,  and  the  prospects  of  youth,  sel- 
dom realized,  and  repeated  some  lines  from  John- 
son's "  Vanity  of  Human  Wishes"— 
"  0*er  Bodley's  dome  his  fatare  labours  spread. 
And  Bacon's  mansion  thunders  o'er  his  head." 
But  mark  the  sad  reverse — 
"  From  Marlbrough's  eyes  the  tears  of  dotage  flow; 
And  Swift  expires,  a  driyeller  and  a  show." 
On  preparing  to  go,  he  inquired  how  long  I  was 
likely  to  be  absent.    "  A  year,"  said  I,  "  at  least. 
I  am  going  to  the  west  country  to  paint  some  por- 
traits."— ^*  Cast  yourself  round  by  Abbotsford.    I 
am  projecting  some  new  plantations,  and  am  in 
hopes  of  making  an  exchange,  and  acquiring  the 
entire  margin,  or  boundary  line,  of  Cauld^ela 
Loch ;  and  if  I  succeed,  I  will  adopt  your  design, 
and  plant  the  whole  land  around,  to  a  considerable 
extent." 

I  had  been  praising  a  small  medallion  portrait 
as  an  excellent  likeness.  ^*  It  was,"  said  he,  **  first 
done  in  wax  by  Henning,  and  then  cast  in  glass. 
I  have  more  than  one.  Accept  of  this ;  and  per* 
mit  me  to  hang  it  by  a  small  chain."  ItwasasUver 
chain,  such  as  he  used  to  hang  his  whistle  or  dog-' 
call  by.  The  same  kind  of  chain  is  painted  round 
his  neck  in  the  last  portrait  by  Raebum. 

My  reflections  on  parting  were  melancholy.  Sir 
Walter  looked  care-worn;  and  his  efforts  to  be 
merry  appeared  painful.  I  saw  that  the  *'  Life  of 
Napoleon"  sat  heavy  on  his  spirits.  **  There  is  no 
imagination  in  it,"  said  he ;  ^^  and  the  incidents  are 
so  distorted  by  party,  that  there  is  great  difficulty 
in  coming  at  the  facts.  It  may  happen,"  said 
he,  **  as  you  are  often  unsteady  in  your  movements, 
that  you  may  not  leave  Edinburgh  so  soon  as  you 
at  present  purpose :  if  so,  come  to  breakfast-— 
half-past-eight,  or  at  the  same  hour  in  the  evening." 


20 


REMINISCENCES  OP  DUBLIN  COLLEGE  LIFE.— No.  III. 

^ILLY  SHERIDAN'S  BREAKFAST  TABLE.— THE  HISTORICAL  SOCIETY  IN  ITS  DECLINE. 


Besides  the  race  of  SHpSy  of  which  my  good 
friend  Folej  was  a  bright  example^  the  Iri^  Uni- 
versity is  singular,  I  believe,  amongst  colleges,  in 
tolerating  the  use  of  female  attendants.  The  *^nice 
caution,"  however,  employed  in  the  selection,  pre- 
cludes scandal.  The  candidates— /atr  candidates, 
shall  I  call  them  ? — ^for  such  appointments  must  be 
of  a  certain  age;  and,  in  addition  to  that  natural 
far^(fic(Uumy  must  also  have  passed  the  inspection 
of  a  Committee  of  Ugliness,  of  which  the  senior  and 
junior  deans  are  members  ex  qffkio.  Little  inquiry, 
if  any,  is  made  about  their  character  for  temper- 
ance, sobriety,  or  those  other  parts  of  morality 
which  are  looked  to  for  the  protection  of  moveable 
property  intrusted  to  servants.  But  they  must  be 
decidedly  unhandsome  in  form  and  feature.  That 
is  a  Hne  qud  ncn;  and,  so  qualified,  the  handmaid 
who  aspires  to  academic  pickings  and  perquisites, 
may  come  and  go  at  discretion,  and  pilfer  and  pur- 
loin till  she  is  found  out.  As  Doctor  Daniel  Mooney 
said  of  his  one-eyed  XanHppe^  "  She  answers  all 
ancillary  purposes  beautifully." 

I  know  not  if  it  be  expressly  contrary  to  the 
statute  **De  AforHuSy"  for  a  college  woman  to 
expose,  unmasked,  those  charms  which  are,  with 
perfect  propriety,  uncovered  elsewhere.  But  from 
their  invariable  concealment^  under  an  encrustation 
of  grime  and  ashes,  of  the  natural  complexion,  it 
may  be  deemed  that  soap  and  water,  though  per- 
haps unnamed  in  the  Dean's  Tariff,  are  excluded 
by  prescription. 

The  renowned  Anne  Horan  flourished  under  the 
patronage  and  irregular  payments  of  gentlemen 
from  Tipperary,  through  many  successive  genera- 
tions. She  had  great  perfections,  among  which 
her  native  eloquence,  in  the  racy  idiom  of  ^^  the 
sweet  county,"  took  the  shine;  and  a  slighting 
allusion  to  the  honour  of  that  bright  particular 
spot  in  our  green  isle,  or  to  any  personal  peculiarity 
about  herself,  or  her  chief  patron  Doctor  Wall, 
was  sure  to  draw  it  out  in  torrents.  The  fluency 
for  which  many  eminent  speakers  at  the  bar  and 
in  the  pulpit  are  to  this  day  remarkable,  was  first 
developed  in  wordy  encounters  with  her.  The  late 
lamented  and  indomitable  member  for  Clonmel, 
Dominick  Ronayne,  was  indebted  for  all  his  '^  saucy 
and  audacious  eloquence,"  to  the  daily  tilts  with 
which  he  seasoned  his  breakfast,  while  Anne  brought 
up  the  milkman's  scores,  or  wondered  "  where  the 
next  U^  was  to  come  from,  when  the  grain  at  the 
bottom  of  the  canister  would  be  out  ? "  Surgeon 
Porter  also,  the  most  mellifluous  of  lecturers,  im- 
bibed a  great  portion  of  his  ready  wit  and  sparkling 
flow  of  expression  from  Anne  ;  and,  to  her  dying 
day,  it  was  her  boast,  wliich  nobody  thought  of 
denying,  as  often  as  the  oratorical  fame  of  Mortimer 
O'Sullivan  was  alluded  to  in  her  presence,  that 
die  *<  taught  that  boy  to  praich," 

She  w<i8  dyed  in  grain  with  the  espri$  de  ce/jw, 
(whkh,  by  tliu  by,  was  not  th«  t^prit  d^  te<Wf*;) 


and  would  as  soon  have  abjured  her  marriage  vows 
as  wash  the  venerable  dust  of  ages  from  her  brow. 
To  students  who  were  nice  in  their  diet,  her  habits 
were  not  agreeable.  With  the  same  hand  that 
patted  the  wet  slack  upon  your  fire,  would  she  set 
down  a  loaf  upon  the  table,  or  transfer  a  roll  of 
butter  from  the  cabbage-leaf  to  the  plate ;  aqd  to 
question  her,  during  such  ministrationB,  as  to  the 
date  of  her  last  ablutions,  was  not  at  all  times  safe. 
If  she  was  in  good  humour,  she  would  refer  you  to 
the  college-pump  for  the  information  you  required : 
— *^  Ax  the  pump."  But  if  anything  had  occurred 
to  ruffle  her  serenity,  she  would  not  hesitate  to 
send  you  somewhere  else  for  an  answer. 

By  such  a  Hebe  was  Billy  Sheridan's  super- 
nacular  apartment  opened  to  my  knocking,  when, 
according  to  invitation,  I  went  to  breakfast  with 
him,  on  the  second  morning  after  our  meeting  at 
the  theatre. 

To  my  inquiry,  if  Mr.  Sheridan  was  stirring  1 
her  answer  was  brief  and  pithy. 

^^  Faith,  and  that  he  is;  and  seowkUn.  I  wonder 
you  didn't  hear  the  roars  of  him  in  the  ooort-yard." 
"  What  *s  that  you  're  saying,  ye  old  trump  ?  " 
said  mine  host,  thrusting  his  well-lathered  chin  out 
from  a  crib  eight  feet  by  six,  which  was  partitioned 
off  his  parlour ;  and  grinning,  at  the  same  time,  a 
gracious  good  morrow  at  me  through  the  soap-suds. 
'^  No  wonder  I'd  scold,  when  you  took  my  shaving- 
brush  to  whitewash  the  hearth." 

**  And  a  great  harm  was  in  that!"  cried  she,  with 
an  indignant  toss  of  her  head.  **  Lord  save  ub — 
how  grand  we  are,  all  of  a  suddent.  There's 
Docthur  Wall,  a  betther  man  than  ever  ye  wor, 
or  your  father  afore  ye,  and  a  Fellow  of  the  College 
into  the  bargain,  that  never  says  again'  the  like. 
No,  nor  if  I  was  to  polish  the  bars  of  the  grate,  as 
often  I  did,  with  the  clothes-brush,  he  wouldn't  be 
the  man  to  say — ^Ul  ye  did  it^  Anne  Horan.'  Agh ! 
and  there's  nothing  like  the  sale  ginthry  to  dale 
with."  Here  she  launched  into  a  genealogical 
eulogium  of  the  Walls  of  Ooolnamuck,  leaving  her 
submissive  master  at  liberty  to  proceed  witii  the 
delicate  abrasion  of  his  chin,  which  the  mixture 
of  roach-lime  with  the  usual  softer  application  had 
rendered  a  tearful  operation. 

Anne,  in  the  meantime,  handy  as  she  was  homely, 
bestirred  herself  to  set  the  breakfast  gear  to  rights, 
dusting  out  the  inside  of  the  cups  and  saucers  with 
the  comer  of  an  apron,  the  sight  of  which  would  al- 
most excuse  the  wish  that  she  had  been  bom  of  the 
sect  of  the  Pharisees.  She  then  brought  out  what  she 
was  pleased  to  call  "  the  crame,"  from  a  filthy  shelf 
in  the  shoe-pantry,  taking  heed  to  grasp  the  jug  by 
the  spout,  thumbwise,  whereof  she  left  a  visible  im- 
press in  semicircular  wavy  lines  of  black,  about 
half-an-inch  above  high  water-mark.  The  bread 
had  been  toasted  before  I  came,  (how  toasted,  I 
happily  was  Ignorant,)  and  was  laid  on  a  plate  to 
be  kept  wanni  within  the  kwiw  i  upon  whiclii 


THE  HISTORICAL  SOCIETY  IN  ITS  DECLINE. 


21 


tius  tonaideTate  dame  raked  down  with  the  poker  t  as  a  pleasant  relaxation  from  the  toils  of  business. 


soch  another  cloud  of  ashes  as  never  fell  upon  any 
man's  breakfast,  since  that  which  alit  upon  Pliny's 
last  muffin.  ^  That  s  nothing  at  all/'  said  she, 
dropping  the  Coolnamuck  theme  for  an  instant. 
**  The  toast  isn't  buttered ;"  and  with  three  smart 
puffs  of  her  spicy  breath  she  dispersed  the  light 
embers  through  the  room,  leaving  the  plate  with 
its  contents  as  dean,  to  all  appearance,  as  any  other 
part  of  the  entertainment. 

It  was  to  a  meal,  so  prepared,  that  I  first  sat 
down  with  Billy  Sheridan  in  his  own  castle ;  and 
to  which,  notwithstanding  the  unsavoury  prelimi- 
naries I  had  been  witness  to,  a  fresh  and  not-easily- 
jealons  appetite  did  ample  justice ;  whilst  mine 
host  pour»l  forth  tea  and  criticism  with  an  even 
band.    He  had  just  seen  in  the  London  papers  an 
aoconnt  of  Macready's  dehut  in  Drury  Lane;  and, 
from  what  The  Examiner  said,  was  sure  that  ^*  Mac- 
m^  must  be  a  great  fellow."     But  he  was  not 
qnite  prepared  to  give  up  John  Kemble  for  any 
new  heresy. 
The  Cynthia  of  that  minute,  however,  was  not  the- 
atrical BQly  was  ruminating  a  speech  tobe  delivered 
'^^^HutmriealSodetj^yOTi  the  revolutionary  ques- 
tion:—<<  Was  Brutus  justified  in  conspiring  against 
ibelifc  of  Julius  C«sar?"    The  provost— Ebrington 
-i^  expressed  hb  disapproval  of  such  a  subject, 
a8inTolTiog,bypo6siblereflectionupon  recent  events 
in  Fiance,  Uie  discussion  of  modem  politics ;  and 
it  was  Billy's  endeavour  so  to  frame  the  argument 
as  to  give  the  fullest  scope  to  his  admiration  of  the 
king-kiUer,  while  he  should  avoid  offence  to  the 
snrlj  Head  of  our  House.     How  he  might  have 
succeeded  in  so  double  an  object,  was  never  put  to 
tbe  test;  for  the  provost  proceeded  from  disapprov- 
ing to  interdict  tiie  question  ;  and  it  was  changed, 
sccordingly,  to  a  dry  debate  on  the  Wars  of  ike 
^2o«y;  a  subject  so  entirely  English,  that  my  friend 
obserred  it  was  impossible  to  twist  the  smallest 
imaginable  bit  of  Shamrock  into  it. 

The  war  of  the  Heads  of  the  University  against 
the  progress  of  polite  literature  and  the  practical 
fctudy  of  eloquence  had  then  begun.  Upon  the 
promotion  of  Provost  Hall  to  a  bishopric,  which 
he  did  not  live  quite  one  week  to  enjoy,  it  was 
thooght  advisable  by  Spenser  Perceval's  govern- 
ment to  check  the  Jacobinical  spirit,  which  was 
supposed  to  be  growing  up  in  the  university,  by 
placing  it  under  the  rod  of  a  hot  and  uncompromis- 
i^  Tonr.  For  this  purpose.  Dr.  Elrington  was 
^ed  up  from  his  parish  in  Ulster ;  and  almost 
lug  first  act  was  a  mortal  blow  aimed  at  the  His- 
torical Society. 

He  procured  an  order  of  the  Board  for  excluding 
from  the  society  all  members  who  had  withdrawn 
^  names  from  the  college  books ;  and  the  im- 
B'^te  effect  of  that  it^idalion  was  a  separation 
of  the  youthful  and  inexperienced  students  from 
^  of  established  reputation  in  the  learned  pro- 
^***wis,  with  whom  it  was  a  point  of  duty,  as  well 


to  frequent  those  meetings.    Thus,  at  once,  a  most 
salutaiy  control  was  removed,  by  which  the  wild 
excesses  of  temper  had  been  restrained,  and  the 
judgment  of  young  aspirants  to  fame  disciplined 
and  guided  in  the  right  path  to  distinction.    The 
result  was  what  the  learned  Vandab  at  the  Board 
anticipated.    The  Society  soon  became  a  sort  of 
rhetorical  boxing-school,  in  which  he  who  could 
utter  the  greatest  quantity  of  sounding  nonsense 
and  personal  abuse,  without  stop  or  impediment, 
was  accounted  the  best  orator.  Party  politics  then 
crept  in,  and  infused  their  poisonous  influence  in 
the  election  of  officers,  who  had  formerly  been 
chosen,  solely  in  reference  to  their  rank  and  emi- 
nence in  the  various  walks  of  liberal  knowledge. 
The  society  was  thus  split  into  factions,  and  became 
the  constant  scene  of  wrangling  and  violence,  which 
brought  on  new  restrictions  from  the  Board.  Those 
restrictions  were  found  intolerable;  but  remon- 
strance was  treated  with  purposed  contempt ;  and 
in  a  moment  of  irritation,  which  it  had  been  the 
anxious  wish  of  the  constituted  authorities  to  ex- 
cite, the  society  heroically  dissolved  itself.    The 
provost  clapped  a  padlock  upon  the  door  in  half- 
an-hour  after  the  suicide  was  committed ;  taking 
possession  of  all  the  books,  furniture,  copper-kettles, 
cups,  saucers,  and  other  moveables,  whereof  we  died 
possessed.     The  fine  room  in  which  this  mimic 
parliament  had  been  wont  to  sit,  was  turned  into 
a  draught-house^  or  something  of  the  kind,  for 
medical  students  to  discuss  the  Pharmacopoeia  in ; 
and  in  their  possession  it  remains,  I  believe,  to  this 
day. 

The  same  year  which  witnessed  the  extinction 
of  the  Historical  Society  in  Trinity  College,  saw  an 
Orange  Lodge  established  in  the  chambers  of  a  stu- 
dent from  the  north  of  Ireland;  and  weekly  orgies 
were  celebrated  therein,  without  the  slightest  inti- 
mation of  displeasure  from  the  provost  or  his  obe- 
dient Sanhedrimy  until  the  day  of  his  departure  to 
take  possession  of  the  Episcopal  palace  at  Ferns. 

My  acquaintance  with  the  Society  commenced 
in  the  days  of  its  decline.  The  old  members  had 
been  turned  out.  North's  visits,  few  and  far  be- 
tween, were  rudely  interdicted.  Finlay,  honest 
John,  no  longer  came  to  smile  upon  juvenile  talent, 
and  assist  it  with  counsel  ever  friendly  and  ever 
welcome.  Charles  Phillips  rolled  his  lazge  dark 
eyes  along  the  Dodder  Bank,  where  he  was  obliged 
to  spout  his  blank  verse,  instead  of  taking  our 
wondering  comprehension  by  surprise.*  Wallace 
was  gone  to  London ;  that  Hotspur  of  the  north,, 
who  had  been  called  to  the  foot  of  the  chair  for 
telling  a  seedy  antagonist  that  he  must  be  an- 
swered out  of  Shakspere— 

«  Froth  and  scum,  thou  liest." 
M^Ghee  was  even  then  waxing  fanatical,  (he  had 
always  been  flighty,)  and  had  seceded,  leaving  be- 
hind him  a  reputation  for  oratory,  t^e  fruit  of  a 
single  speech  of  remarkable  brilliancy  and  power. 


*One of  tliii  oiBtor*k  mott  ranownad  and  popular  speechei,  that  made  in  tbe  Crim.  Con.  case  of  Chtthrie  v.  Stmte.  was 
nnpoMd  tbroQ^oQt  in  tbe  Heroic  meanire.    Take  a  swnpje  :-^ 

Was  flowers ;  when,  to  their  clear  and  charmed  vision, 

Each  tint  they  saw  spoke  Nature*i  loyelincM, 

And  every  breeze  i\-as  but  embodied  fragrance/*  &c,,  &P; 


^^njAt  have  been,  that  in  tbe  spring  of  Life, 
Il^/ncj  waved  its  fairy  wand  around  them, 
TiU  att  above  was  Bunshine,  all  bimeath 


22 


REMINISCENCES  OF  DUBLIN  COLLEGE  LIFE. 


which  has  never  been  equalled  by  any  subaequent 
efifort  of  his  genins.  Shell  was  writing  tragedies 
for  Miss  O'Neil  to  act ;  Wyse  had  gone  abroad ; 
and  poor  Biyson,  the  accomplished  poet  of  The 
JubiUey  in  a  fit  of  despondency,  after  an  unsuccess- 
ful competition  for  a  fellowship,  had  drowned  him- 
Belf. 

But  there  were  still,  among  the  remnant  that 
was  left,  a  few  who  deserved  to  be  accounted 
fnaercuU  gigarOum.  There  was  Sidney  Taylor, 
and  the  two  O'SuUivans,  of  whom  it  has  been 
already  my  hint  to  speak, — all  three  well-read 
xnen,  ready  and  deep  reasoners,  sufl&ciently  elo- 
quent, and,  upon  occasion,  right  witty  and  enter- 
taining. I  remember,  in  particular,  a  speech  of 
Taylor's  on  the  Institutions  of  Chivaliy  in  the 
Middle  Ages,  which  was  one  of  the  best  pieces  of 
solemn  drollery  I  ever  heard.  It  seems  to  have 
been  made  in  anticipation  of  the  Eglinton  Tour- 
nament. 

Bingham  Hamilton,  a  vehement  and  aigumen- 
tative  speaker,  with  a  £ne  bold  style  and  fearless 
spirit,  gave  early  promise  of  a  successful  career  at 
the  bar.  Those  who  have  seen  that  apostolic 
orator,  the  Bishop  of  Exeter,  with  his  fangs  fixed 
in  some  luckless  opponent,  when  the  css^rum  iheo- 
logicum  is  busy  wiUi  him,  may  conceive  a  lively 
representation,  both  in  mind  and  person,  of  Bing- 
ham Hamilton.  But  to  rival  that  burning  light 
on  the  great  stage  of  wordy  contention,  "  his  lot 
forbade."  His  life  was  cut  short  by  a  miserable 
fatality,  while  his  name  was  still  upon  the  coUege 
Ibooks:  a  brother,  to  whom  he  was  fondly  attached, 
and  by  whom  he  was  equally  loved,  having  had 
the  misfortune  to  kill  him  by  the  accidental  dis- 
chazge  of  a  fowHng-pieoe. 

Contemporary  with  him,  and  often  opposed  to 
him  in  debate,  was  Hercules  Graves,  son  of  The 
Dean  of  Ardagh,  who  had  taken  all  the  honours 
that  were  at  that  time  to  be  had  in  the  Undeigra- 
duate  Course.  He  was  urged  to  seek  a  fellowship, 
which  he  could  have  obtained  without  much  diffi- 
culty, but  he  preferred  to  carve  out  a  way  for  him- 
self to  higher  distinction ;  and,  had  his  constitution 
been  equal  to  the  rough  work  before  him,  there  can 
he  no  question  that  he  would  have  risen  as  high  as 
great  talent  and  hard  labour  can  raise  any  man  in 
this  country.  Next  to  Charles  Wolfe,  he  was  the 
most  popular  man  in  college ;  being  kind,  free- 
hearted, unaffected,  and  social,  and  possessing  the 
great  natural  recommendations  of  a  very  pleasing 
manner,  and  of  a  countenance  truly  noble  in  intel- 
lectual characteristics,  and  beaming,  at  the  same 
tune,  withfrankness  and  good  humour.  1  haveoften 
thought  how  fortunate  it  has  been  for  some  men, 
who  are  now  high  up  in  the  world,  that  genius 
dwells  so  frequently  in  fragile  vessels,  that, 
"  working  out  its  way. 
It  freia  the  puny  body  to  decay." 
Graves  would  surely  have  stopped  the  promotion 
of  some  Tory  Attorney-general,  had  he  not  fallen 
an  early  victim  to  the  Euthanasia  of  youthful 
genius,  pulmonary  consumption.  His  ilhiess  was 
short,  and  had  scarcely  been  heard  of  amongst  his 
fellow-studentfli,  until  *<that  news  came  with  his 
^th." 


It  is  a  solemn  and  striking  lesson  to  young 
persons,  as  yet  unused  to  consider  the  mutability 
of  human  things,  save  as  an  abstract  truth,  when 
those  who  have  run  along  with  them  in  the  race 
of  fame  and  honour,  and  been  companions  of 
their  pleasant  hours,  are  swept  away  before  their 
eyes.  Sad  and  starding  was  the  intelligence  when 
we  returned  at  the  end  of  a  Long  Vacation,  ex- 
pecting to  resume  our  wonted  pursuits  and  asso- 
ciations, and  missed  two  such  men  as  Graves  and 
Hamilton  from  the  places  which  they  had  occupied, 
and  which  none  but  themselves  could  filL 

^  Where  are  they? ''  was  the  general  and  almost 
the  first  inquiry. 

"  They  are  dead!" 

It  was  in  this  manner  that  the  loss  sustained  by 
our  little  community  was  made  known  to  most  of 
us ;  and  the  efiect^  even  after  a  lapse  of  eight-and- 
twenty  years,  is  still  painful  to  remember. 

Ronmey  Robinson,  Her  Majesty's  Astronomer- 
Royal,  was  then  in  his  Middle  Bachelorship,  and 
sometimes  of  an  afternoon,  when  he  condescended 
to  come  down  from  holding  converse  with  the  stars 
in  his  skylight  apartment^  would  pass  an  hour  or 
twain  amongst  us.  To  say  truths  he  looked  more 
like  one  who  had  dropped  down  from  that  high 
perch,  through  the  shaft  of  a  chimney,  than  by  the 
ordinary  gradation  of  the  stairs.  But^ 
Quid  torn,  si  ftuMiis  AmyntM  I 
Romney,  in  spite  of  his  linen,  was  a  shining  light ; 
and  woe  was  to  the  wight  who  had  the  temerity 
to  provoke  him.  He  had  been  a  poet;  one  of 
those  juvenile  prodigies  who  ^^ lisped  in  numbers;'* 
and  his  infant  efiusions  had  been  published,  while 
he  was  yet  a  little  boy,  "  a  very  little  boy,"  with 
a  full-length  engraving  of  the  author,  in  jacket 
and  trousers,  upon  the  frontispiece.  But  one  of 
the  first  things  he  learned  in  college  was  the  wis- 
dom of  discarding  the  muse ;  which  he  did  sans 
ceremoniey  turning  a  set  of  highly  unprofitable  de- 
mocratic principles  out  of  doors  along  with  her ; 
and  he  retained  nothing  of  the  bard  but  the  dark 
rolling  eye,  and  a  more  than  prosaic  irritability  of 
temper. 

He  was  a  perfect  cynic  in  debate,  and  worried 
an  antagonist  as  a  mastiff  would  set  about  shaking 
a  lady's  lap-dog.  It  was  literal  worrying:  he 
threw  his  whole  spirit,  and  his  body  too,  into  the 
operation;  and  every  one,  but  the  sufferer,  was 
amused  to  mark  how  his  eye  sparkled  during  such 
onslaughts  with  unwonted  fires,  as  his  head  vibrated 
incessantly  from  shoulder  to  ciioulder,  with  a  for- 
ward and  downward  motion,  while  a  sharp  and 
impetuous  cataract  of  words, 

"  Much  bitterer  than  woimwood," 

rushed  through  his  protruded  lips.    Virgil's  im- 
age of  the  wild  boar-^ 

Hinc  atque  illinc  hnmeros  ad  vnlnera  durai^ 
never  had  a  better  human  representation. 

The  emollient  powers  of  science  and  dogmatic 
theology  may  have  sofi«ned  our  Professor's  heart 
during  the  long  course  of  years ;  but  they  have 
not  much  mended  his  manners  or  refined  his 
style.  Within  a  few  months,  he  has  made  a  speech 
at  one  of  the  goodly  meetings  of  the  oleigy  in 


THE  HISTORICAL  SOCIETY  IN  ITS  DECLINE* 


23 


Dnblio,  ^hsre  he  e&bibited  some  of  the  old  flashes 
which  made  him  so  attractiye  an  orator  in  the 
Historical  Society,  to  all  who  conld  listen  to  him 
m&  tme  ptuU  peridi^  He  fell  upon  a  Report  of  the 
National  Board  of  Education^  with  all  the  achaime- 
mmt  with  which  he  had  been  wont  to  tear  an^iuli- 
tor'i credentialB  to  tatters.  '*It  was»"  he  said,  <'a 
aeries  of  the  most  infunons  criticisms,"  composed  in 
a  ''spirit  of  flippant  impertinence  and  copious  so- 
phiiby.*'  The  writer  of  it  was  ^a  wret^  who 
knew  the  statements  it  contained  to  be  false."  He 
wonld  call  <' the  CConnells  and  Shells  the  yipers  of 
floeictj ;"  and  as  it  was  the  ^* best  way  to  take  a 
riper  by  the  tail,^  he  would  take  a  hold  of  that 
put  of  the  Report^  by  which  Sir  Robert  Peel  had 
been  infiueneed  to  adopt  the  National  System  of 
Education:  thus,  it  may  be  presumed,  implicating 
the  Right  Honourable  Baronet  as  a  portion  of  the 
riper  O'Coonell's  taiL 

Let  these  specimens  suffice  for  the  sl^le  of  our 
Doctor  in  DiTinity.  His  idea  of  Parity  is  equally 
originaL  He  is  urging  the  good  people  present  to 
gm  their  money  for  the  support  of  schools  on  the 
exclniiTe  principles  of  thepSstablished  Church ;  "all 
other  deeds^"  he  says,  "are  doubtful  in  their  results. 
Tbefood  which  you  bestow  upon  the  poor^  may  be 
applied  to  the  purpoies  of  debauchery;  the  reUef 
which  yon  afibrd  to  the  sick  may  chance  to  pre^ 
«rw  ^  Ufe  of  one  whose  disappearance  from 
society  might  baye  been  a  blessing ;  but  in  this, 
and  this  alone,  we  are  able  to  say  there  is  upon  it 
no  spot  nor  blemish.'* 

What  a  chaplain  Bomney  Robinson  would  make 
for  a  congxegation  of  Irish  LandlordB  ! 

Que  more  extract,  showing  the  personal  identity 
of  his  politico-religious  man-*and  that  will  be 
enough  to  proTe  that  he  is 

"OldCasBingstfll." 

''The  College,'*— he  speaks  of  Trinity  College, 
Dahlin,  our  or^K  Unirersity  for  a  population  of 
eight  n^ons,  of  whom  three-fourths  are  Catholics 
— "The  Coll^^  was  a  strictly  Protestant  estab- 
Itihnient,  from  which  Roman  Catholics  were  ex- 
cluded ;  but  latterly,  with  that  unwise  liberality 
which  sacriflced  truth  to  conciliation,  they  were 
admitted."  Yes,  **  admitted  "  as  you  say.  Doctor, 
—hat  that  is  all.  They  are  admitted  to  study  in 
the  classes,  and  to  take  such  degrees  as  are  open  to 
Isymen ;  but  from  any  office  on  the  Foundation 
they  are  still  rigorously  excluded.  They  cannot 
be  Fdlows,  nor  can  they  be  admitted  to  the  honour 
Old  emoluments  of  a  Scholarship,  which  is  now,  and 
bss  been  for  upwards  of  a  century,  a  mere  prize 
for  chuaical  proficiency.  Such  is  the  **  imwise 
(but  not  Tery  extraragant)  liberality  "  extended 
towards  the  Roman  Catholic  gentry  of  Ireland. 

Plato,  by  gazing  too  intently  upon  the  stars, 
&nad  himself  up  to  the  chin  in  a  ditch.  Who  then 
iball  say  that  our  Astronomer-Royal  is  out  of  his 
pmper  element,  when  we  find  him  thus  **  wallowing 
i&  the  mire"? 

There  waa  one  man,  in  particular,  whom  Rom- 
vj  Bol»naon  held  in  supreme  contempt,  for  this 
esceDeiit  reason— 4t  was  thought— amongst  others; 
thiihe  had  presiu&ed  to  walk  into  the  Examina- 
Uoa  Hall,  one  fine  morning  when  Romney  had  a 


mind  to  get  a  fellowship  ;  bhi  to  the  amazement 
of  everybody — the  intruder  himself  not  excepted^ 
snatched  the  golden  prize  out  of  his  yery  jaws. 
This  was  Ed^rord  Hinck»^ 

^a  name  unknown  to  men, 
Bat  the  gods  knew  and  therefore  loved  him  then." 

The  OrueeBy  however,  (a  common  case,)  were  of 
a  different  way  of  thinking  from  The  Groda,  They 
shrank  away  from  his  gaunt  figure  and  sheepidit 
ways,  which,  in  fact,  operated  to  his  disadvantage 
wiUi  many.  Doctor  Barrett  alone  seemed  to  ap- 
preciate him  early,  perhaps  for  the  sake  of  those 
very  singularities  which  made  the  rest  of  the 
world  stare.  *'I  have  a  great  taste,''  he  would  say, 
''for  Misthur  Hincks."  But  ere  many  months, 
Mr.  Hincks,  by  his  uncouth  waggeries,  turned  that 
great  taste  to  a  greater  aversion,  and  there  was  no 
man  whom  the  vice-provost  more  cordially  de- 
tested. 

Hincks  is  now  planted  as  a  country  parson  in 
the  Black  North,  surrounded  by  Orangemen  and  a 
High  Tory  clergy,  to  whom  he  gives  battle  with  in- 
domitable constancy  and  talent,  on  the  question  of 
National  Education,  and  other  points  in  advance 
of  this  shovel-hatted  age.  Although  frowned  upon 
by  his  bishop,  and  single-handed  in  the  fray — ^for 
not  even  Griffin  stands  by  him — ^he  holds  his  own 
against  adiooese  in  arms ;  nor  has  anyone  attempted 
to  put  him  down.  Pour  cela^  he  is  still  regarded 
as  an  ugfy  eueiomer. 

Hincks  scarcely  deserves  a  reminiscence  in  the 
records  of  a  society  where  he  was  auditor  tatOum^ 
He  never  essayed  a  speech.  Once  only  I  saw  him 
on  hb  legs,  after  he  had  been  made  a  fellow,  en- 
deavouring to  explain  some  matter  in  dispute  be- 
tween two  of  the  members ;  but  what  he  said,  or 
wanted  to  say,  nobody  could  well  divine ;  for  Robin- 
son, who  was  in  the  chair,  cut  the  thread  of  his 
eloquence  extremely  short,  by  declaring,  with  his 
mandarin-head  shake,  that  he  was  ''disposed  to  pay 
all  possible  respect  to  what  fell  from  thai  gentle- 
man, if  he  could  only  comprehend  what  it  was  he 
said."  To  see  the  two  of  them  scowling  at  each 
other  through  their  opposite  spectacles,  during  this 
brief  colloquy,  was,  as  Billy  often  said,  "  a  raial 
thrate.    It  was  as  good  as  a  play." 

A  rough  diamond  of  another  water  was  Fletcher, 
son  of  tiie  truly  honest  and  able  judge  of  that 
name,  whose  bluff  independence  found  a  faithful 
representative  in  the  youth.  He  was  no  show 
orator,  nor  aspired  to  any  such  distinction;  but 
could  express,  in  terse  and  vigorous  language,  the 
free  thoughts  of  a  bold  and  dauntless  mind.  He 
cared  not  much  who  was  pleased  or  who  was  of- 
fended ;  so  he  said  whatever  came  uppermost ;  dicen- 
da  taeenda  loeutus.  He  had  considerable  humour,  of 
a  Sardonic  cast,  which  was  admirably  set  off  by 
an  abrupt  earnestness  of  manner,  a  loud,  strong,  and 
dissonant  voice,  and  (pace  dicam)  a  mighty  grim 
visage.  There  was  a  grave  fierceness  in  Ms  fun, 
which  gave  it  a  two-fold  effect. 

It  is  to  be  regretted  that  Fletcher  never  went 
into  Parliament.  He  once  tried  his  fortune  at  Kil- 
kenny, but  failed,  and  brought  O'Connell's  tongue 
upon  himself  into  the  bargain,  for— 


24 


REMINISCENCES  OF  DUBLIN  COLLEGE  LIFE. 


"  Deeming  that  path  he  might  pursue, 
Without  a  pass  from  Roderick  Dhu.'' 

But  had  lie  a  seat  in  the  house  just  now,  few  men 
could  do  more  vigorous  service  in  keeping  the 
small  wits  of  the  little  Orange  knot  there  in  check. 

John  O'Brien,  now  member  for  Limerick  City, 
was  one  of  those  Roman  Catholics  whom  the 
"  unwise  liberality  "  of  the  age  admitted  to  dine  at 
the  Fellows'  table  and  to  becomeacompetitor  (avery 
successful  one  too)  for  the  honours  of  the  Undeigra- 
duate  Course.  He  further  encroached  upon  Pro- 
testant privileges,  by  taking  the  medal  awarded  by 
our  Society  to  the  best,  speaker  of  his  session. 
Then,  as  ever,  he  was  an  accomplished  gentleman, 
well  informed,  well  bred,  unassuming  and  agree- 
able. People  troubled  themselves  less  at  that  time 
than  they  have  done  since  about  the  religion  of 
their  neighbours ;  and  for  my  part,  I  was  not  even 
aware,  when  I  voted  for  O'Brien  at  an  election  for 
the  Auditor  s  place,  that  his  creed  differed  from  my 
own.  There  was  nothing  in  his  speeches  which  could 
have  marked  him  as  dissenting  from  the  Thirty- 
nine  Articles,  either  in  the  sublapsarian  or  the  supra- 
lapsarian  sense.  He  might  have  been  a  Calvinist 
or  an  Arminian,  for  aught  I  knew ;  yet  when  he 
lost  that  election  by  a  small  majority,  a  partisan 
of  the  successful  side  ran  out  into  the  streets  and 
proclaimed  to  all  of  his  acquaintance,  in  the  words 
of  the  factious  song — 

^  The  ProtettatU  Boyt  have  earned  the  day." 
So  early  was  that  leaven  at  work,  which  after- 
wards spread  over  the  university,  and  has  since 
diffused  its  poisonous  influence  through  the  whole 
frame  of  society. 

Amongst  our  silent  members  were  two  indivi- 
duals who,  if  they  spok«  less  than  others,  certainly 
thought  to  excellent  purpose.  They  were  Charles 
Dickinson  and  James  O'Brien,  class-fellows  and 
bosom  friends.  I  believe  they  occupied  the  same 
chambers ;  at  aU  events  they  were  inseparable, 
and  associated  with  few  others.  O'Brien  was  in- 
comparably the  foremost  man  of  his  day ;  in 
classics,  as  well  as  in  science,  none  could  approach 
him.  He  carried  off,  without  any  apparent  effort, 
eveiything  that  was  to  be  had,  as  the  reward  of 
merit  or  proficiency;  and  although  suffering  from 
ill  health,  he  had  but  to  walk  into  the  hall,  and 
all  competition  shrank  away  before  him. 

Dickinson  was  second  only  to  him ;  and  a  fel- 
lowship would  have  speedily  crowned  a  very  bril- 
liant academical  career,  but  that  his  affections 
became  engaged ;  and  he  preferred  a  curacy,  with 
the  object  of  his  choice,  to  the  most  assured  prospect 
of  collegiate  preeminence. 

These  friends  were  sprung  from  the  middle 
class.  Dickinson's  father  was  a  hard-ware  man 
in  Cork ;  O'Brien's  moved  in  no  higher  rank  at 
New  Ross.  Yet  upon  both  of  them  nature  had 
imprinted  her  own  visible  stamp  of  aristocracy,  to 
which,  when  it  is  maintained  by  corresponding 
mental  qualities,  all  inferior  men,  the  great  vulgar 
as  well  as  the  little,  must  ever  bow  with  respect. 


It  IB  rare  to  see  a  man,  in  any  station,  of  so  com« 
manding  a  presence,  a  brow  more  majestic,  a  coun- 
tenance so  full  of  high  thought  and  intellectual 
power,  as  O'Brien.  His  friend  was  cast  in  a  dif- 
ferent mould.  Smaller  in  stature,  in  manner  less 
severe,  of  expression  far  more  gentle  and  cheerful, 
with  scarcely  less  of  ^^xnind,"  but  a  great  deal 
more  of  "  music,  breathing  from  his  face,"  Charles 
Dickinson  was  a  youth,  whose  appearance  and 
address  any  nobleman  might  have  been  happy  to 
recognise  in  the  heir  of  his  house  and  lineage. 

It  was  a  fine  thing,  and  a  new  thing  in  Ireland, 
to  see  those  two  young  men  raising  themselves  by 
their  own  talents  and  virtue,  to  the  highest  rank 
in  a  profession  which,  until  very  lately,  was  con- 
sidered the  exclusive  heritage  of  those  who  are 
"  bom  great."  The  honours  of  the  Bar  have  been 
always  open  to  men  of  low  degree ;  because  not 
many  men  of  high  degree  can  be  got  to  work  for 
them,  as  they  mwt  be  worked  for.  But  the  high- 
places  of  the  Church  were  easy  places,  and  seemed 
to  require  the  ornament  of  gentle  blood  to  make 
them  pass  in  the  eyes  of  the  common  people  for 
true  ''  Dignities."  Down  to  a  very  recent  period, 
the  cadets  of  noble  houses  divided  all  the  rich 
preferments  among  them;*  with  the  exception 
that,  now  and  then,  the  provost  of  our  university 
was  suffered  to  step  into  a  cathedral ;  or  what  was 
more  frequent  still,  some  proUgi  of  the  mimstiy 
at  the  other  side  of  the  water,  who  was  thought 
too  had  for  an  English  mitre,  was  sent  over  to 
maintain  and  improve  the  Protestant  interest  by 
locating  his  sons  and  interspersing  his  daughters 
amongst  the  squires  and  parsons  of  his  diocese. 

Lord  Fortescue,  to  his  immortal  honour,  broke 
through  the  cordon  bleu,  which  environed  the 
chief  seats  in  our  church,  and  made  Dickinson 
bishop  of  Meath.  It  is  the  first  instance  within 
the  memory  of  those  now  alive,  of  a  simple  parish 
priest  having  been  advanced  to  tfie  mitre  without 
the  recommendations  of  title  or  family  interest,  and 
on  the  ground  of  merit  alone. 

O'Brien  had  gone  through  certain  academic  gra- 
dations, which  rendered  his  elevation  to  alike 
splendid  preferment  less  striking.  He  had  been  a 
Fellow  of  the  university,  and  had  gained  much 
public  notice  and  admiration  by  his  lectures  as  a 
Professor  of  Theology,  before  Lord  De  Grey  made 
him  Bishop  of  Ossory.  The  appointment  is  most 
creditable  to  the  present  government. 

It  has  been  objected,  that  this  bishop  is  hostile 
to  the  national  system  of  education,  of  which  Sir 
Robert  Peel  is  the  reluctant  patron.  But  there  is 
some  truth  in  the  saucy  brag  of  Mr.  Shaw,  that  the 
government  were  reduced  to  a  Hbhson's  choice  upon 
that  point.  For  there  are  not,  among  their  own 
friends,  any  clergymen  in  Ireland  fit  to  be  "  made 
into  bishops,"  who  are  not  hostile  to  that  system. 
That  the  Tories  should  go  amongst  the  rimks  of 
their  opponents,  in  search  of  a  candidate  for  so 
gorgeous  a  prize,  is  a  little  more  virtue  than  could 
be  reasonably  expected  of  them.    It  is  only  Whigs 


At  the  time  I  write  of,  the  Iriih  Church  could  boast  of  three  bishops  of  the  name  of  Beresford,  one  Broderick,  one  Bourke, 
one  Jocelyn,  one  Tottenham,  one  St.  Lftwrence,  one  Trench,  one  Lindsay,  one  Ale»nd«r,  one  Kaox,  one  Stuart  j  all  of  vbpm 
may  be  said  to  have  bc«n  bom  with  mitres  on  their  hea^s. 


ME  HISTORICAL  SOCIETY  iN  ITS  DECLINE- 


who  do  sach  things :  Whigs,  whose  love  of  tuft- 
hm^ng  is  greater  than  their  love  of  consistency; 
&ad  who  lavished  their  favours  npon  a  Tonson 
sad  a  Knox,  while  they  seemed  to  be  ignorant  of 
the  existence  of  such  men  as  Wilson  and  Staples, 
sod  Douglas  and  Hudson.* 

The  career  of  poor  Dickinson  was  short  though 
glorious.  In  less  than  two  years  after  his  high 
advancement  he  was  seized  with  brain  fever  and 
died,  leaving  his  family  in  a  state  of  deplorable 
want,  £rom  which  it  became  necessary  to  relieve 
them  by  a  public  subscription.  This  was  sad 
enough ;  but  the  case  is  marked  by  a  circumstance 
yet  more  affecting.  The  mother  of  his  children, 
she  for  whom  he  was  glad  to  forego  the  object  of 
his  early  ambition,  and  with  whom  it  was  the 
pride  of  his  life  to  share  his  latter  prosperity  and 
distinction,  was  so  stunned  by  the  sudden  severity 
cf  her  afBiction,  that  reason  gave  way  before  it. 
So  much  of  tragedy  is  there  in  the  ordinary  affiurs 
and  incidents  of  human  life. 

John  Anster,  a  poet,  and  a  good  one,  was  fond  of 
hearing  himself  talk  in  the  Historical  Society; 
and  tUhough  he  never  was  very  popular  as  an 
orator,  he  talked  good  matter,  and  to  the  question. 
Bot  success  in  these  things  depends  too  much 
npon  manner.  The  test  of  modem  eloquence  is 
Ron  ^,  ud  quamodo.  His  reputation  is  now  an 
Euiopean one;  a  translation  of  Fanst  having  made 
a  name  for  him,  which  neither  men  nor  colunms 
thought  of  conceding  to  his  original  productions 
in  prose  or  verse.  The  fashion  of  original  poetry, 
indeed,  seems  to  have  passed  away;  and  Anster 
should  be  thankful  to  the  Germanism  of  the  day, 
that  his  merit  has  been  acknowledged  in  any  guise. 

He  is  a  member  of  the  Bar ;  but  Themis  ia  a 
jealous  hag.  She  does  not  countenance  aspirants 
to  her  favours,  who  presume  to  carry  on  flirtations 
with  the  Muses.  Sergeant  Talfourd  is  almost  the 
onlj  learned  gentleman,  guilty  of  ten  good  lines 
of  poetry,  who  ever  held  a  ten-guinea  brief;  and 
he  (I  believe)  was  cunning  enough  to  conceal  his 
/uzuoA  at  Parnassus,  until  he  had  made  a  firm 
lodgment  in  the  hearts  of  the  Attorneys. 

Anster  made  no  secret  of  his  predilections ;  and 
consequently  he  walked  the  hall  like  an  Apostle, 
carrying  neither  bag  nor  purse,  for  many  a  weary 
term.  To  Lord  Morpeth's  generous  and  discri- 
minating patronage  he  is  indebted  for  an  appoint- 
ment in  the  Admiralty  Court :  that  of  Registrar  I 
think ;  which  justkeepshis  bays  watered,  and  leaves 
him  pretty  much  at  leisure  to  pursue  the  life  of 
elegant  idleness  which  suits  him.  The  post,  indeed, 
is  not  a  sinecure ;  for  there  are  duties  attached  to 
it,  which  he  performs  well  and  carefully.  But 
for  the  sake  of  my  country,  whose  commerce  is  so 
^^stricted  as  to  yield  little  or  no  employment  to 
an  Admiralty  Courts  I  wish  those  duties  were 
much  heavier  than  they  are ;  and  for  Anster's  sake, 
whose  merits  are  entitled  to  a  richer  guerdon,  I 


could  heartily  desire  to  see  the  emoluments  of  his 
office  thereby  increased  four-fold.  Talent  like  his 
—rare  in  any  country,  and  almost,  if  not  alto- 
gether, singular  in  Ireland — ^is  deserving  of  more 
encouragement  than  it  has  as  yet  received. 

It  will  be  deemed  strange  that  a  society,  reckoning 
amongst  its  members  the  personsalreadynamed,and 
many  others  no  less  capable  of  vindicating  its  true 
objects,  and  giving  a  character  to  its  proceedings, 
should  have  degenerated  into  a  scene  of  puerile  folly, 
which  rendered  its  utter  extinction  an  act  scarcely 
to  be  deplored.  But  these  individuals  were  then 
mere  youths,  the  equals,  in  years  and  standing,  of 
the  other  students ;  and  boys  are  not  apt  to  pay 
implicit  deference  to  any  superiority,  which  is  not 
associated  with  the  advantage  of  riper  years  or  of 
social  position.  "True,"  they  would  say,  "Taylor 
is  a  sensible  man,  Robinson  a  fiei^e  one,  and  Dick- 
inson a  very  nice  fellow ;  but  what  right  have  tht^ 
to  tell  us,  that  we  do  not  know  how  to  conduct  our- 
selves? Who  made  them  to  be  judges  over  us?" 
It  was  thus  that  the  exclusion  of  the  extern  mem- 
bers operated  to  the  subversion  of  order  and  the 
decline  of  good  taste  and  sobriety. 

Go  into  the  House  of  Commons,  towards  the 
close  of  a  fagging  night's  work,  and  unless  Sir 
Robert  Feel  be  there,  or  Sir  James  Graham,  to  keep 
their  boys  in  order,  how  much  better  will  you  find 
the  trustees  of  the  public  interests  conducting 
themselves  in  that  august  assembly,  than  the  pan- 
tisocrats  of  a  Juvenile  Spouting  Club  ?  Have  we 
not  often  seen  Colonel  Sibthorpe  or  Colonel  Per- 
ceval applauded  to  the  echo,  by  a  house  that  had 
not  patience  to  listen  to  Macaulay,and  which  would 
drown Buller's voice  in  general  cries  of  "Question"? 
So  it  was  in  the  Historical  Society,  from  the  time 
that  Provost  Elrington  removed  the  wholesome 
"regard  of  control,"  under  which  our  young  mem- 
bers had  felt  themselves  to  be  restrained,  whilst 
men  of  professional  eminence  and  of  experience 
were  allowed  to  be  present  and  take  a -part  in  their 
debates. 

I  have  known  the  present  Chief  Baron,  (Brady,) 
whose  speeches  were  admirable  for  the  variety  of 
information  they  contained,  and  the  clear  and  lucid 
order  in  which  it  was  put  forward,  almost  coughed 
down,  because  he  did  not  mouth  and  bellow  his 
words  like  a  town-crier :  and  I  have  seen  a  mad 
fellow,  name  Cuffe,  start  up  immediately  after- 
wards, and  take  the  prison'd  souls  of  our  tyranni- 
cal majority  with  the  most  incomprehensible  and 
inexplicable  stuff  that  ever  was  uttered .  He  would 
throw  himself  out  into  the  middle  of  the  floor,  fling 
his  arms  over  his  head,  and  at  the  highest  note  of  a 
shrill,  squealing  voice,  sing  out  period  after  period  of 
most  grammatical  but  most  unintelligible  nonsense. 

The  question  one  night  related  to  the  State  of 
Rome  under  the  Emperors;  and  the  orator,  to 
bring  his  view  of  the  subject  home  to  the  gentle- 
man who  filled  the  chair,  requested  him  to  imagine 


It  yru  nail  J  » little  too  much  to  hear  Lord  John  Russell,  the  Home  Secrettfy  who  sanctioned  Bishop  Tonson^s  appoint- 
!^^_^  Killaloe,  lectiuing  hia  successon  on  their  ecclesiastical  arran^ments.    They  are,  it  is  true,  ffenerally  speaking,  most 


jU-advised  and  unpopnlarl  but  persons  yfho  live  in  elass-hooses  shouf^  not  throw  stones.  The  only  "Whig  Whodispensed  the 
vbnrch  patronage  oflieland,  with  a  single  view  to  uie  great  principles  on  which  the  government  pat  forth  its  chums  to  puhltc 
iBpport  and  approhation,  ym  ^rd  For^scue,  Oo  that  point,  ss  on  every  other,  he  was  always  moderate,  always  sincere,  9p'^ 
«nys  ancompromising. 


26 


REHflNISCENCES  OP  DUBLIN  COLLEGE  LIFE. 


that  he  was  then  seated  in  the  Fonim,  under  Tra- 
jan's PlUary  with  the  Twelve  CssaiB  smoking  their 
cigars  around  him;  the  lamp  of  History  in  his 
right  hand,  and  the  spectacles  of  Philosophy  astride 
upon  his  nose.  ''Then,  Mr.  Chairman" — ^he  pro- 
ceeded— **  imagine  that  all  time  heoomes  at  once 
contemporary;  that  Romulus  and  Remus,  Pylades 
and  Orestes,  Brutus  and  Cassius,  Hengist  and 
Horsa,  Hophni  and  Phinehas,  Valentine  and  Or- 
son, Romeo  and  Juliet,  all  flourish  «tc6  MM2em  <ra- 
hibus.  Suppose  you  see  Nero  upon  this  bench — 
Domitian  upon  that-— Tiberius  at  the  Secretary's 
desk — ^Titus  losing  another  day  in  listening  to  the 
unworthy  individual  before  you — and  then  ima- 
gine, Mr.  Chairman,  that  you  see— — -Helioga- 
balus  peeping  out  behind  the  chair." 

The  last  words  were  pronounced  with  such  rapid 
and  fierce  animation,  that  all  eyes  were  turned  to 
the  spot  indicated  by  them;  and  it  was  ascertained, 
amidst  peals  of  laughter,  that  HeUogdbdlus  was  a 
Mr.  Marmaduke  Clarke,  who  happened  to  be  mak- 
ing faces  at  the  orator,  over  the  president's  shoulder. 
Cuffe  once  said  a  smart  thing,  prompted  (I  do 
suspect)  by  that  sly  rogue  Sam  O'Sullivan,  who 
sat  beside  him.  He  was  launching  out,  as  usual, 
in  a  tirade  of  nonsense  upon  the  legality  of  tm- 
pressmenty  comparing  Nelson  to  Noah,  and  the 
Hulks  to  the  Ark,  into  which  the  reluctant  ani- 
mals were  driven  for  their  own  good ;  when  he 
was  called  to  order  by  Mr.  Lundy  Foot,  (a  son  of 
the  famous  tobacconist,)  who  reproved  him  for 
making  grave  subjects  ridiculous.*—"  I  stand  cor- 
rected," said  Cuffe,  with  a  bow  towards  the  chair; 
"for 

*  Rideniem  dieere  veram  quid  vetat."' 
It  was  for  tomfoolery  like  this,  that  the  proper 
and  dignified  pursuits  of  the  Society  were  too  often 
abandoned,  and  its  enemies  supplied  with  fresh 
excuses  for  devising  evil  against  it. 

The  most  finished  talker  of  **  true  no-meaning," 
in  that,  or  any  other  society,  was  Carrol  Watson, 
a  real  Tipperaiy  boy,  who  possessed  all  the  exterior 
qualities  of  an  orator  in  the  utmost  perfection.  His 
person  was  well-proportioned  and  athletic ;  his  face, 
handsome  and  sufficiently  intelligent,  could  express 
all  the  fiercer  passions  with  high  dramatic  effect. 
His  eyes  dark,  full  and  flashing,  seemed  to  look 
quite  through  the  thoughts  alike  of  friend  and  foe. 
His  hair,  of  a  glossy  black,  curled  naturally  about 
his  temples,  and  set  off  an  extremely  fine  forehead. 
A  more  showy  specimen,  in  short,  of  a  vigorous 
young  Irishman  of  five-and-twenty,  was  not  to  be 
seen.  Were  it  not  for  an  unpleasant  air  of  confi- 
dence and  swagger,  he  might  have  been  pronoun- 
ced as  gentlemanlike  as  he  was  good-looking ;  but 
those  are  essential  vulgarities,  which  no  personal 
agr^mma  can  neutralize.  His  action  was  moreover 
free  and  graceful,  and  his  voice  as  loud  and  clear 
as  a  market-bell. 

But  all  this  was  the  mask  in  the  fable ;  there 
was  no  brain  behind  it.    He  had  a  complete  ma- 


chinery for  speaking,  but  nothing  to  speak.  Yet 
he  rattled  away.  Words  came  at  will;  not  very 
choice  words,  to  be  sure;  but  he  threw  them. 
together  somehow,  and  they  sounded  well,  as  they 
rolled  out,  in  an  unbroken  stream,  firom  his  lips* 

Watson  was  highly  popular  with  our  genteel 
little  mob.  He  possessed,  in  fact,  aU  the  elements 
of  a  mob-orator,  being  ardent,  daring,  plausible, 
and  a  little  unscrupulous.  He  had  therefore  his 
followers,  who  put  him  up  for  the  honorary  post  of 
Auditory  which  he  lost  by  a  pass  of  practice  in  the 
other  party. 

It  was  that  election  which  afforded  him  an 
opportunity  of  developing  the  faculty  of  saying 
nothing  ad  injlnitvmy  in  which  he  stood  for  eyer 
after  unrivalled,  even  by  the  great  Lord  Castle- 
reagh.  His  opponents  trumped  up  an  absard 
charge  against  him  of  having  fiJsified  the  journals ; 
a  crime  for  which  he  would  have  been  liable  to  ex- 
pulsion.* Their  spokesman  upon  the  oocamon  was 
a  Mr.  Lendrick,  who  came  down  with  great  solem- 
nity from  hia  sick  bed,  wrapt  up  in  a  dread-noaght 
coat,  and  with  a  green  bandage  over  his  eyes^  to 
manage  the  impeachment.  The  opening  of  the 
vials  against  Warren  Hastings  had  scarcely  cansed 
a  greater  sensation.  Mr.  Lendrick  spoke  for  an 
hour ;  and  the  culprit  was  called  upon  for  his  de- 
fence. 

Snrgit  ntino  pallidixs  Ajax. 

His  quick  eye  discerned  that  there  was  a  majority 
of  judges  opposed  to  him,  and  his  only  chance  of 
evasion  was  to  wear  out  the  night,  until  the  toU  of 
themidnight  bellshould  ipsofaOo  disperse  the  meet- 
ing. The  oetracista  sat  fidgetting  on  their  seats, 
expecting  with  impatience  that  he  would  have  dane 
some  time  or  another ;  but  nothing  was  farther 
from  his  intention,  than  to  have  done  at  any  time. 
Bespieefinem  might  be  Solon*s  maxim,  but  it  was 
none  of  his.  He  had  an  exordium  which  he  pre- 
fixed to  every  speech  he  made  in  that  Society ;  and 
on  ordinary  occasions  he  made  two  or  three  of  a 
night.  It  was,  with  the  pauses  and  emphases  which 
I  will  endeavour  to  set  forth  by  the  aid  of  dash  and 
italics,  to  this  effect— 

"Mr.  President ^I  neither  agree  with  the  Gen- 
tlemen  on  this  side  of  the  House, nor^       " 

— Here  was  a  very  long  pause  indeed ;  and  his 
fine  voice  was  lowered  to  a  tone  as  deep  and  solemn 
as  if  he  were  going  to  tell  Priam  that  his  house  was 
on  fire,  while  he  shook  his  forefinger  thrice  at  the 

opposite  ranks **nor  with  the  gentlemen 

on  thai  side  of  the  House : "  and  then  he  rat- 
tled away  at  such  a  rate  that  gentlemen  on  both 
sides  of  the  House  could  only  sit  wondering.  Who 
the  mischief  would  agree  with  him  f  For  what 
he  called  arguments  were  such  a  jumble  of  huAs 
and  dates,  of  predicate  and  conclusion,  that  the 
most  acute  mind  could  not  separate  nor  rednoe 
them  to  order ;  and  thus  he  proceeded,  worse  con- 
founding con^sion,  until  the  first  stroke  of  the 


*  To  prevent  miaeonceptioii  arising  from  the  seyere  nature  of  the  puniBliment,  I  feel  boond  to  state  that  the  charge,  had  it 
vwk  been  proved,  involved  no  moral  offenee  whatever.    The  aocoBBtion  against  Mr.  Watson  was,  in  substance,  that  he  nad  in- 
serted npon  the  minutes,  which  should  be  confined  to  a  dry  record  of  the  votes  and  proceedings,  an  allusion  to  the  unmlj  con- 
duct of  oertaiu  of  hia  opponentB  ;  which,  although  misplaced  in  thftt  book,  WM  tme  to  tho  letter.    But  truth  is  the  moit  iiii« 
pardonable  of  libels. 


THE  HISTORICAL  SOCIETY  IN  ITS  DECLINE. 


27 


dock^  OTer  his  head  pTodaimed  his  safety  for  that 
turn.  Then  he  bowed  with  dignity  and  walked  off 
to  sapper,  with  a  glow  of  triumph  on  his  cheek, 
and  soiling  henignantly  like  a  man  at  peace  with 
hhBBelf  and  all  the  world.  Oh,  saccess  to  you, 
Gtrrol  Watson,  wheierer  yon  are  upon  the  broad 
8iii&oe  of  this  pleasant  earth ! 

The  meetings  were  held  onoe  a-week ;  and  the 
adverK  faction  made  sore  of  achieving  their  rath- 
ksB  purpose  on  the  following  Wednesday.  Bat 
little  they  knew  the  enduring  qualities  of  the  elo- 
quence they  desired  to  extinguish.  Watson  threw 
a  number  of  ingenious  delays  in  the  way  of  the 
preliminary  business ;  and  when  the  hour  of  his 
trial  at  length  came  round,  there  he  was,  ready  to 
begin  at  the  beginning,  and  go  over  eyery  syllable 
of  bis  former  defience,  with  additions  and  emenda- 
tionfl  dls  novo.  In  this  way  he  consumed  three 
nights  of  debate ;  which  were  as  good  as  three  weeks 
gtmed  in  the  chapter  of  accidents.  Then  came  the 
examinatioii  ci  witnesses  at  the  haty  and  their  cross- 
examination  by  our  matchless  Cunctatorj  in  the 
coQiw  of  which  he  elicited  Tarious  facts  of  private 
biatoiy,  carious  enough  in  themselyes,  but  not 
beuiag  very  relatively  upon  the  matter.  Thus  he 
got  out  of  one  gentleman,  that  he  never  ate  more 
than  three  eggs  to  his  breakfast ;  and  from  another, 
that  he  was  pasnonately  fond  of  playing  the  clarion- 
et ;  whereof,  indeed,  all  we  who  were  condemned 
to  hear  him  practising  Hie  Copenhagen  WaUz^  and 
Vdndez  TCU8  danser,  from  mom  to  night,  six  days  in 
the  week,  needed  no  oral  testimony  to  assure  us. 
But  what  such  facts  had  to  do  with  the  alleged 
tampering  of  Carrol  Watson  with  the  journals  of 
the  Historical  Society,  none  of  us  could  compre- 
hend. They  served,  however,  to  kill  time  on  his 
behalf  and  to  relieve  the  tedium  of  the  inquiry  on 
ova. 

Seren  weeks  more  were  disposed  of  by  this  exa- 
mination of  witnesses  and  the  inspection  of  docu- 
ments; and  then  followed  Speeches  to  Evidence, 
and  ^Bputes  upon  points  of  order,  which  brought 
the  ease  down  to  the  thirteenth  week  ;  the  culprit 
appearing,  at  that  stage,  as  fresh  and  as  full  of 
matter  and  of  resolution  to  prolong  the  fight,  as 
when  Mr.  Lendrick  stood  up  in  his  bearskin  to 
impeach  him.  Oh,  Ireland!  ould  Ireland!  why 
<lid  you  not  send  Carrol  Watson  to  Parliament  ? 
They  might  bring  in  their  Arms  Bills  then,  and 
their  DisfranMsinff  BiUSy  thirteen  to  the  dozen — 
9«d  reneare  gradmn  ;  but  to  get  them  out  again, 
without  his  ^ill  leave  and  consent,  would  have  put 
the  whole  working  majority  of  ninety-seven,  or 
wbateirer  it  is,  with  Sir  Robert  Peel  himself  at 
their  head,  to  their  wit's  end. 

How  much  longer  this  investigation  might  have 
Parted  was  a  problem  which  Carrol  Watson,  though 
qnite  willing,  was  not  allowed  to  work  out :  for, 
oik  tlM  thirteenth  night  aforesaid,  he  became  in- 
Tolredin  a  personal  quarrel  with  another  mem- 
^;  and  as  there  was  no  Seigeant-at-Arms  in 
tbat  place,  a  challenge  ensued.  The  High  Sheriff, 
Werer,  did  the  office  of  Mr.  Speaker,  and  brought 


about  a  reconciliation  ;  but  the  provost  having 
heard  of  the  affair,  had  the  parties  up  before 
the  Board,  and  they  were  honourably  expelled  from 
the  University.  Watson  thus  became  defunct  in 
the  Historical  Society ;  and  his  trial,  consequently, 
fell  to  the  ground.  His  name  was  afterwards  re- 
placed by  a  special  act  of  condonation,  along  with 
that  of  his  antagonist,  upon  the  CoU^e  books ;  but 
he  never  more  entered  the  doors  of  the  Historical 
Society. 

Now,  if  any  reader  is  disposed  to  undervalue  the 
talent,  possessed  in  such  perfectionby  my  finend  Car- 
rol Watson,  of  speaking  against  time,  he  knows  no- 
thing of  the  matter.  To  talk  away  the  hours,  if  it 
be  done  skilfully  and  with  discretion,  and  for  a  pur- 
pose, is  sometimes  a  valuable  faculty.  Go  into  the 
Ecclesiastical  Courts,  reader,  if  you  be  sceptical, 
and  see  what  profit  is  made  there  by  loAg  repeti- 
tions. Go  into  many  of  the  churches  and  see  what 
fame  is  acquired  by  the  same  method.  Go  into  the 
Houseof  Conmions  whenGoulbum  is  on  his  legs^ and 
judge  what  a  comfortable  dinner  honourable  mem- 
bers may  take,  without  fear  of  losing  the  division. 

But  great  public  objects  also  are  sometimes  gained 
by  this  kind  of  holding  out.  A  party  which  is 
numerically  weak,  has  often  ^^  prevailed  by  much 
speaking ; "  as  was  lately  the  result  in  the  case  of 
the  aforementioned  IrUh  Arms  Billy  from  which 
the  long  speeches  of  Lord  Clements,  and  able  assis- 
tants, succeeded,  where  the  claims  of  justice  and 
of  the  British  constitution  were  laughed  at,  in 
plucking  out  some  of  its  most  envenomed  fangs. 
They  literally  talked  down  Sir  Robert  Peel  and  his 
baying  multitude. 

We  all  know  how  the  Tories  stopped  legislation, 
by  the  strength  of  their  lungs,  during  the  last  three 
or  four  years  of  the  Whig  administration.  Mr. 
Lefroy  was  almost  equal  to  Watson  in  that  service, 
and  his  friend  Sergeant  Jackson  lagged  but  a  short 
way  behind.  Ungrateful  indeed,  therefore,  would 
the  government  have  been  not  to  have  rewarded 
both  one  and  the  other  of  them,  notwithstanding 
the  taunts  of  their  opponents ;  for  it  was  eloquence 
such  as  theirs  which  gave  them  power  to  reward 
any  one.  That  was  what  did  the  tricky  as  John 
Thurtell  said  ;  or,  to  cite  a  more  respectable  au- 
thority— restituit  rem. 

I  shall  be  pardoned  for  relating  an  authentic 
anecdote,  illustrative  of  the  good  use  which  can  be 
made  of  this  talent.  Some  years  ago  Lord  Althorp, 
being  Chancellor  of  the  Exchequer,  proposed,  as  *'  a 
boon  to  Irekmdy"  to  lower  the  duty  on  whisky  by  one 
shilling  a  gallon.  It  was  that  same  shilling  which 
Mr.  Goulbum  replaced  last  year,  by  a  mistaken 
calculation  of  a  laige  increase  to  the  revenue,  and 
which  he  found  himself  the  other  day  obliged  again 
to  remit. 

When  Lord  Althorp  had  made  known  his  inten- 
tion of  thus  consulting  for  the  Irish  taste,  (Father 
Mathew  was  then  unknown,)  the  Caledonian  mem- 
bers took  umbrage  at  the  sl^ht  put  upon  their  na- 
tive brewage,  and  protested  angrily  against  it.  But 
the  word  of  the  government  was  pledged ;  and  the 


*  Ihaft  dock  mm  btttar  than  Mr.  Bntiwrton  ;  for,  by  »  AmdAinontal  hm  of  the  Society,  it  wm  equal  to  the  reediiuf  of  the 
r^  dett   The  iiutaat  it  ftruck  twelve,  the  chftir  wu  vacant ;  and  Hicks,  the  porter,  made  baste  to  put  out  the  candies. 


8 


REMINISCENCES  OF  DUBLIN  COLLEGE  LIFE. 


esolntion  should  be  brought  forward.  On  the  ap- 
pointed day,  however,  for  moving  the  reduction, 
the  Chancellor  of  the  Exchequer  accosted  More 
O'Ferrall  in  the  lobby,  and  told  him  frankly  that 
the  majority  of  the  Scottish  members  were  too  for- 
midable to  be  provoked.  He  would  therefore  merely 
propose  the  resolution,  as  he  was  bound  by  his  pro- 
mise, but  must  leave  it  an  open  question  to  the 
friends  of  the  government  to  take  what  side  they 
pleased. 

The  notice  was  a  short  one  ;  and  on  looking 
through  the  House,  the  member  for  Kildare  found 
a  strong  muster  from  the  ^  Land  of  Cakes,"  and  a 
very  thin  sprinkling  of  Irish  members.  Fortu- 
nately he  knew  where  the  latter  were  to  be  found ; 
for  he  had  been  invited  to  join  a  large  party  of  them 
in  a  white-bait  excursion  to  Greenwich ;  and  he 
took  the  resolution  of  setting  out  immediately  and 
bringing  them  up  for  the  division.  But  then  how 
to  keep  the  question  afloat  all  the  time  that  must 
elapse  during  his  absence  ?  He  almost  despaired  ; 
but  seeing  old  Ruthven,  and  well  knowing  of  what 
leathern  quality  his  lungs  were  compact,  he  briefly 
explained  to  him  the  true  state  of  the  case,  and 
begged  of  him  to  keep  the  House  amused  tiU  he 
should  return. 

"  If  you  don't  come  back  till  the  cows  come 


liome,"  said  the  hearty  old  feUow,  "yon  shall  find 
me  here  upon  my  two  legs." 

So  away  O'Ferrall  stiuied  down  the  river  from 
Westminster  Bridge,  with  two  pair  of  oars ;  and  in 
lees  than  an  hour  and  a  half  walked  into  the  House 
again,  with  about  twenty  truants  in  his  train. 
Ruthven  was  true  to  his  word,  sawing  the  air  and 
talking  of  worts  and  barley,  oats  and  agriculture, 
protection  and  native  produce,  heedless  of  the  cries 
of  "  Question,  question,"  which  issued  from  two 
dozen  Scottish  throats  all  around  him.  He  had 
just  begun  a  new  sentence,  trusting  to  his  mother- 
wit  for  the  end  of  it.  The  nominative  case  had 
been  launched  with  an  adjective  or  two,  to  give 
time  for  making  out  a  verb,  and  he  was  on  the 
point  of  enunciating  a  relative  pronoun,  to  be 
followed,  perhaps,  by  half-a-dozen  parentheses, 
when  More  O'Ferrall  whispered,  as  he  walked  past 
— "  You  may  stop  as  soon  as  you  like." 

^*  Faith  and  I'd  like  it  now,"  said  the  honourable 
and  learned  member  for  Dublin,  sitting  down  with- 
out waiting  to  finish  his  period. 

The  object  was  gained  ;  Irish  whisky  beat  the 
Ferintosh  by  a  majority  of  ten :  a  national  triumph 
which  never  could  have  been  achieved,  had  not  Ed- 
ward Southwell  Ruthven  studied  verbiage  in  the 
Historical  Society. 


CORRESPONDENCE  BETWEEN  BURNS  AND  CLARINDA.— PART  II. 
C  Concluded  from  page  764  of  our  No.  for  December,  1843.^ 


Op  Bums  it  is  impossible  to  say  too  much  ;  but 
are  we  not,  in  these  Clarinda  Letters,  giving  undue 
importance  to  what  was  at  best  little  more  than  a 
brief  episode  in  his  passionate  life ;  one  transient 
flame  of  the  many  that  burnt  fiercely,  but  fitfully, 
in  his  heart,  or  played  around  hisfancy,  and  thenfor 
ever  passed  away  from  the  thoughts  of  one  whose 
"  loves  were  as  short  and  rapturous  as  his  lyrics  ?'* 
Between  the  time  that  he  appeared  in  Edinbmgh  (to- 
wards the  close  of  the  year  1786)  and  the  Spring  of 
1788,  in  which  he  married,  or  re-married,  Jean  Ar- 
mour, the  susceptible  bard,  by  his  own  account,  had 
been  more  or  less  scathed  by  tlie  bright  eyes,  or  won 
by  the  amiable  manners,  of  at  least  a  dozen  beauties 
of  the  south,  the  north,  and  the  metropolis.  Of 
these,  Clarinda  chanced  to  be  the  last,  and  the  only 
one,  that  appeared  disposed  to  give  him  sigh  for  sigh. 
Had  any  one  of  the  ladies  to  whom  he  paid  court, 
or  to  whom  he  addressed  the  love-songs  of  which 
they  were  presumed  to  be  the  inspiration,  entered 
into  so  frank  and  sympathetic  a  correspon- 
dence with  him,  is  there  a  doubt  that  we  should 
have  had,  with  the  Bonn^  Lots  of  Balloehn^le, 
The  Fairest  Maid  on  Devon's  Bonis,  Bonny  Les- 
Uy  Baillie,  Charming  lovefy  Dams,  and  a  dozen 
more  of  Phillises  and  Chlorises,  a  series  of  letters  as 
glowing  and  rapturous,  though  more  naturally  and 
respectfully  expressed,  than  that  correspondence  into 
which  he  was  precipitated  with  Mrs.  M^Lehose  ?  It 
was  unfortunate  for  that  lady,  that  a  more  modest 
^imat^  of  her  own  attractions  and  talents,  and  a 


better  knowledge  of  the  nature  and  license  of  a 
poet's  admiration,  had  not  in  time  suggested  to  her, 
that  a  love  at  first  sight — ^but  neither,  as  she  well 
knew,  a  first  nor  yet  a  fiftieth  love — ^that  a  violent 
and  instantaneously-conceived  passion  for  a  woman 
fettered  by  law  and  opinion,  if  not  by  moral 
obligation,  was  liable  to  very  great  suspicion  on 
the  score  of  sincerity,  as  well  as  of  constancy  and 
propriety.    We  know  well. 

That  Love  will  venture  in 

Wbar  it  dauma  weel  be  seen ; 
That  Love  will  venture  in 

Whar  Wisdom  ainoe  has  been;^ 

but  we  know  of  few  such  fiery  ungovernable  out- 
breaks of  passion  as  this  on  the  sober  side  of  the 
Alps,  or  among  the  fogs  of  Britain ;  and  Clarinda, 
if  not  the  most  vain,  must  have  been  the  most  self- 
deluded  of  women,  not  to  follow  the  line  of  conduct 
adopted  by  those  other  modest  charmers,  who  wei'e 
content  to  receive  the  rapturous  adoration  of  the 
poet  as  the  natural  homage  of  genius  to  beauty. 
Had  she  possessed  a  truer  and  more  modest  self- 
appreciation,  the  memory  of  Bums  would  have 
been  spared  some  reproach ;  while  she  would  have 
been  spared  the  catastrophe  which,  we  should  hope, 
caused  her  much  humiliation  and  heart-burning.  It 
is  said  Love  is  blind ;  but  that  Vanity  is  blinder  stilly 
is  evident  from  the  whole  tenor  of  this  correspon- 
dence. 

The  account  which  Bums  ^ivesof  a  sentimenta 
flirtation,  or  *Uove*scrape.**  into  which  he  fel 


CORRESPONDENCE  BETWEEN  BURNS  AND  CLARINDA. 


29 


vith  a  young  woman,  his  *^  Montgomery 's  Peggy," 
who  leoeived  his  addresses  coldly,  sufficienUy, 
to  ufl  at  least,  explains  the  nature  of  his  feelings 
for  Mrs.  M'Lehoee  at  the  commencement  of  the 
coirespondence.      ''She/'  the  lady,    "had  been 
bred  in  a  style  of  life  rather  elegant ;  but  as 
Vftnbnrgh  says,  'my  wielded  star  found  me  out 
there  too.'    For  though  I  began  the  affair  merely 
mpaieU  de  eoeur;  or  to  tell  the  truth,  which  will 
ficuoely  be  belieYed,aTanity  of  showing  my  parts  in 
courtship,  particularly  my  abilities  at  a  HUet  douXy 
on  which  I  always  piqued  myself,  made  me  lay 
siege  to  her ;  and  when,  as  I  always  do  in  xay 
foolish  gallantries,  I  had  battered  myself  into  a 
very  warm  affection  for  her,"  &c.    We  need  not 
pursae  what  fully  explains  the  rise  and  progress  of 
many  of  Bums'  fitful  and  transient  passions.    In 
the  same  strain,  though  in  more  complimentary 
langnage,  a  passage  occurs  in  a  letter  to  a  young 
lady,  his    "little  idol,*'  "the  charming  lovely 
DaviB,"  the  **  Bonnie  wee  thing"  of  his  lyHcs, 
whom  he  gallantly  proposes  to  add  to  the  multi- 
tade  of  beauties  of  all  ages  and  conditions  that 
filled  the  Beraglio-chambers  of  a  poet's  imagination. 
Hesays,  "When  I  meet  with  a  person  after  my 
own  heaat,  I  positirely  feel  what  an  orthodox  Pro- 
testant would  call  a  species  of  idolatry,  which  acts 
on  my  fancy  like  inspiration  ;  and  I  can  no  more 
resist  rhyming  on  the  impulse,  than  an  iEk>lian 
haip  refose  its  tones  to  the  streamy    air.     A 
distich  or  two  would  be  the  consequence,  though 
the  object  of  my  fancy  were  grey-beard  age ;  but 
when  my  theme  b  youth  and  beauty— a  young 
lady  whose  personal  charms,  wit,  and  sentiment, 
are  equally  striking  and  unaffected— by  Heavens! 
though  I  had  lived  three  score  years  a  married 
man,  and  three    score   years   before    I  was    a 
married  man,    my  imagination    would    hallow 
the  Teiy  idea."    Most  unhappily,  Mrs.  M'Lehose 
could  not,  or  would  not,  understand  what  was  in- 
stbctivdy  felt  by  all  these  ladies,  whether  married 
or  single.  She  persistedin  believingthat  the  rich  tri- 
bute which  inspired  genius  paid  to  womanly  beauty 
and  attraction,  was  the  sober,  steadfast  homage  of 
the  heart.    She  well  knew  that  Bums  had  been  a 
lover  and  a  rover  long  before  they  had  met ;  and 
now,  construing  his  poetic  flights  as  vanity  and 
growing  passion  prompted,  she  must  have  flat- 
tered herself  that  she  alone  had  power  to  fix  his 
wandering  affections ;  that  his  love  had  concen- 
trated upon  her  in  defiance  of  "impossibilities." 
Severe  judges  will  say  that  Bums  was  inveigled 
into  this  correspondence  by  one  who,  strangely 
self-deluded,  misoonstmed  her  ownmotives  as  much 
as  she  did  his  vapouring  professions.  But  Clarinda 
may  have  believed,  that  though  fiction  has  an  al- 
lowed pkce  in  poetry,  a  poet's  prose  run-mad  may 
be  sincere.  Besides  admiring  his  genius,  she  had  the 
high  motive  of  wishing  to  convert  him,  and  of  wean- 
ing him  from  his  evil  ways ;  and  in  the  dangerous 
process,  found  in  him  that  ideal "  lover-friend"  for 
whom  her  susceptible  heart  had  long  yearned.    If 
'^c  can  understand  one  who  did  not  very  well  un- 
deratand  herself,  it  was  not  love  for  Bums  that 
B*vs  birth  to  thU  desire;  but  the  sentimental  long- 
log  was  gratifiid  when  he  appeared^  the  phuiUx 


"male-friend long 80ught,"andunfound.  "  Heaven 
sent  the  blessing  in  my  Sylvander."  Had  any  of  the 
other  more  prudent  charmers,  the  goddesses  who 
lighted  up  his  heart,  taken,  like  Clarinda,  the 
Poet  at  his  first  word,  and  invited  a  correspondence 
of  sentiment  and  gallantry,  the  laughing  gods  best 
know  whither  they  might  have  led  so  harum-scaram 
Will-o'-the-Wisp  a  personage  as  he  rather  fondly 
loves  to  describe  himself.  It  is  certain,  as  we  have 
said,  that  we  should  have  had  many  more  love- 
letters,  or  series  of  love-letters.  Oidy  one  other 
lady  b  reported  to  have  had  the  indiscretion  of 
showing  about  his  songs  written  in  pnuse  of  her 
charms,  or  rather  of  the  living  loveliness  which 
was  ever  the  poet's  immediate  inspiration ;  and 
from  her,  "The  lassie  wi'  the  lintwhite  locks," 
he,  according  to  Allan  Cunningham,  endeavoured 
to  retrieve  the  consequences  of  his  imprudence, 
by  empowering  a  common  friend  to  claim  the 
manuscripts,  which  "Chloris"  unwillingly  re- 
stored. Nor  does  he  seem  to  have  been  at  all  am- 
bitious of  the  ieUu  attendant  on  Ckrinda's  fa- 
voured lover.  Immediately  before  he  left  Edin- 
burgh he  wrote — 

To-morrow  evening  I  shall  be  with  you  about  eight, 
probably  for  the  Ust  time  till  I  return  to  Edinburgh. 
In  the  meantime,  should  any  of  these  two  nnluoky  friends 
question  you  respecting  «m,  whether  I  am  (A«  fnan,  I  do 
not  think  they  are  entitled  to  any  information.  As  to 
their  jealousy  and  spying,  I  despise  them. 

Mrs.  M'Lehose  had  so  many  gentlemen,  con- 
fidential friends,  that  one  gets  confused  among 
them ;  but  Bums  was  not  at  all  ambitious  to  be 
known  as  the  man,  who  came  to  visit  her,  at  what 
the  douce  folks  of  her  little  Court  must  have  deemed 
most  unHmeoua  hours.  He  was  nevertheless  known 
to  her  remonstrating  friends. 

But  now  the  hour  was  come — 

He  mounts  and  rides  away. 

However  feverish  was  the  passion  of  Bums  during 
the  last  few  weeks  of  his  stay  in  Edinburgh,  it 
appears  to  have  been  cooled  down,  if  not  blown  to 
the  winds,  as  he  passed  over  by  tlie  Kirk  of  Shotts 
or  Camwath  Moor,'^on  his  way  to  Glasgow.  Some 
few  letters,  mucli  lowered  in  tone,  and  appearing 
at  longer  and  longer  intervals,  were  received  by 
the  languishing  if  not  forsaken  Clarinda,  who  wrote 
frequently.  Yet  Burns  felt  the"  sacrifices"  to  whicli 
Mrs.  M'Lehose  had  been  subjected  for  "  his  sake ;" 
and  one  way  or  other,  she  must  now  have  caused  him 
no  little  perplexity.  He  tells  her  of  his  present 
plans  for  the  Excise  and  farming,  and  addfr— 

If  I  settle  on  the  farm  I  propose,  I  am  just  a  day  and 
a  half's  ride  from  Edinburgh.  We  shall  meet:  don't 
you  say, "  Perhaps  too  often  I" 

The  very  day  after  this  letter  was  written,  if 
the  dates  are  accurate,  his  second  pair  of  twin  chil- 
dren were  bom ;  and  now  he  might  well  regret  not 
having  pondered  in  time  the  good  old  song,  which 
we  recommend  to  all  young  poets — 

**  It's  gude  to  be  merry  and  wise, 
It's  gude  to  be  honest  and  true, 

It's  guUe  to  be  aff  wi' the  auld  love, 
Before  ye  bo  on  wi'  the  new," 

On  the  M  of  March,  the  birthday  of  the  twins, 
he  wrote  his  young  friend  Ainslie  :~"  I  have  b»^ 


so 


CORRESPONDENCE  BETWEEN  BURNS  AND  CLARINDA. 


thiongh  some  tribulation  and  mnch  buffeting  of 
the  wicked  One,  since  I  came  to  this  country.  Jean 
I  found  baniflihedy  forlorn,  destitute,  and  friendless. 
I  have  reconciled  her  to  her  £&te;  and  I  have  re- 
conciled her  to  her  mother.  I  shall  be  in  Edin- 
burgh the  middle  of  next  week.  .  .  .  I  got 
a  letter  from  Clarinda  yesterday ;  and  she  tells  me 
she  has  got  of  mine  but  one.  Indeed,  she  is  the 
only  person  I  have  written  in  Edinburgh  till  this 
day.*'  He  tells  he  had  written  her  four  letters, 
which  appear  to  have  all  been  received  at  last; 
and,  in  tiie  meanwhile,  he  answered  Clarinda's  re- 
proaches and  complaints  of  silence  and  neglect, 
kindly  and  gently,  and  defended  himself  by  plead- 
ing- 
Gould  not  yoa,  my  erer  dearest  Madam,  make  a  little 
allow&noe  for  a  man,  alter  long  absence,  paying  a  short 
Yiait  to  a  country  fall  of  friendi^  relations,  and  early  inti- 
mates !  Cannot  yon  guess,  my  Clarinda,  what  thoughts. 
What  cares,  what  anxious  forebodings,  hopes  and  fears, 
taiust  crowd  the  breast  of  the  man  of  keen  sensibility, 
when  no  less  is  on  the  tapis  than  his  aim,  his  employment, 
his  very  existence  through  ftiture  life  ! 

To  be  orertopped  in  anything  else,  I  can  bear ;  but  in 
the  tests  of  generous  loYe,  I  defy  all  mankind  !  Not  even 
to  the  tender,  the  fond,  the  loying  Clarinda— she  whose 
strength  of  attachment,  whose  melting  soul,  may  vie  with 
Eloisa  and  Sappho,  not  even  she  can  overpay  the  affec- 
tion she  owes  me  ! 

Now  that,  not  my  apology,  but  my  defiance  is  made,  I 
feel  my  soul  respire  more  easily.  I  know  you  will  go 
along  with  me  in  my  justification:  would  to  Heaven  you 
could  in  my  adoption,  too  I  I  mean  an  adoption  beneath 
the  stars — an  adoption  where  I  might  revel  in  the  imme- 
diate beams  of 

"  She  the  bright  sun  of  all  her  sex/* 

I  would  not  have  you,  my  dear  Madam,  so  much  hurt 
at  Miss  N[immo]'s  coldness.  'Tis  placing  yourself  below 
her,  an  honour  she  by  no  means  deserves.  We  ought, 
when  we  wish  to  be  economists  in  happiness,— we  ought, 
in  the  first  place,  to  fix  the  standard  of  our  own  character ; 
and  when,  on  faXL  examination,  we  know  where  we  stand, 
and  how  much  ground  we  occupy,  let  us  contend  for  it 
as  property  ;  and  those  who  seem  to  doubt,  or  deny  us 
what  is  justly  ours,  let  us  either  pity  their  prejudices,  or 
despise  their  judgment. 

There  was  not— how  could  there  be  ?— one  syl- 
lable of  Jean  Armour  in  this  correspondence ;  and 
now,  sincerely,  we  begin  to  pity  the  deserted  Cla- 
rinda, pining  in  absence,  if  not  in  solitude,  and 
suddenly  da^ed  down  firom  the  giddy  pinnacle  of 
pride,  to  which  the  seeming  devotion  of  the  Poet 
had  raised  her.  Little  could  she  have  guessed  what 
was  waiting  her,  when,  rallying  her  spirits  on  the 
receipt  of  his  comforting  epistle,  she  says — 

Why  should  I  not  keep  it  up  1  Admired,  esteemed, 
beloved,  by  one  of  the  first  of  mankind  I  Not  all  the 
wealth  of  Peru  could  have  purchased  these.  Oh,  Sylvan- 
der,  I  am  great  in  my  own  eyes,  when  I  think  how  high 
I  am  in  your  esteem  !  You  have  shown  me  the  merit  I 
possess  ;  I  knew  it  not  before.  Even  Joseph  trembled 
t'other  day  in  my  presence.  "  Husbands  looked  mild, 
and  savages  grew  tame  1**  Love  and  cherish  your 
friend  Mr.  Ainslie.  He  is  your  friend  indeed.  I  long 
for  next  week  ;  happy  days,  I  hope,  yet  await  us.  When 
you  meet  young  Beauties,  thmk  of  Clarinda's  affection — 
of  her  situation — of  how  much  her  happiness  depends  on 
you.   Farewell,  till  we  meet.   God  be  vrith  you  I 

Clarinda's  letters,  however,  now  that  she  was  lan- 
guishing under  the  absence  and  silence  of  Sylvander, 
and  indulging  anxious  forebodings,  assume  more  the 
character  of  love-letters,  even  to  the  melancholy 
whine  of  anticipated  neglect.  At  a  lecture  given  by 


Blind  Dr.  Moyse,  she  had  first  seen  the  beautifiil 
MissBumet,  and  asks  Bums,  **  How  could  you  cele- 
brate any  other  Clarinda  ? 

Oh,  I  would  have  adored  yon,  as  Pope  of  ezcjuisite 
taste  and  refinement,  had  you  loved,  sighed,  and  vrritten 
upon  her  for  ever  1  breathing  your  passion  only  to  the 
woods  and  streams.  But  Poets,  I  find,  are  not  quite 
incorporeal,  more  than  others.  My  dear  Sylvander,  to 
be  serious,  I  really  wonder  you  ever  admired  Clarinda, 
after  beholding  Miss  Burnet's  superior  charms.  If  I 
don't  hear  to-morrow,  I  shall  form  dreadAll  reafwns. 
God  forbid  I  Bishop  Geddes  was  vrithln  a  foot  ot  me^ 
too.  What  field  for  contemplation — both !  Good  night: 
God  bless  you !  .  .  .  .  Did  you  ever 
feel  that  sickness  of  heart  which  arises  horn  ''hope  de- 
ferred " !  that,  the  cruelest  of  pains,  yon  have  inflicted 
on  me  for  eight  days  by-past  I  hope  I  can  make  evoy 
reasonable  sdlowance  for  the  hurry  of  business  and  dis- 
sipation. Yet,  had  I  been  ever  so  engrossed,  I  should 
have  found  one  hour  out  of  the  twenty-four  to  vrrite  you. 
•  I  have  been  under  unspeakable 
obligations  to  your  friend,  Mr.  Ainslie.  I  had  not  a 
moital  to  whom  I  could  speak  of  your  name,  but  him. 
He  'has  called  often ;  and,  by  sympathy,  not  a  littie 
alleviated  my  anxiety.  I  tremble  lest  you  should  have 
devolved,  what  you  used  to  term  your  ''folly,"  upon 
Clarinda :  more  's  the  pity 

Mary  I  have  not  once  set  eyes  on,  since  I  wrote  to 
yon.  Oh,  that  I  should  be  formed  susceptible  of  kind- 
ness, never,  never  to  be  fully,  or,  at  least,  habitually  re- 
turned I  "  Trim,"  (said  my  Uncle  Toby,) "  I  wish,  Trim^ 
I  were  dead." 

Mr.  Ainslie  called  just  now  to  tell  me  he  had  heard 
from  you.  You  would  see,  by  my  last,  how  anxious  I 
was,  even  then,  to  hear  from  you.  'Tis  the  first  time  I 
ever  had  reason  to  be  so :  I  hope  'twill  be  the  last.  My 
thoughts  were  yours  both  Sunday  nights  at  eight  Why 
should  my  letter  have  affected  you !  You  know  I  count 
all  things  (Heaven  excepted)  but  loss,  that  I  may  vrin 
and  keep  you.  I  supped  at  Mr.  Kemp's  on  Friday. 
Had  you  been  an  invisible  spectator  with  what  perfect 
ease  I  acquitted  myself,  you  would  have  been  pleaaedj 
highly  pleased  with  me 

I  hope  you  have  not  forgotten  to  kiss  the  little  cherub 
for  me.  Give  him  fifty,  and  think  Clarinda  blessing 
him  all  the  while.  I  pity  his  mother  sincerely,  and 
wish  a  certain  affair  happily  over. 
I  never  see  Miss  Nimmo.  Her  indifference  wounds  me ; 
but  all  these  things  make  me  fly  to  the  Father  of  Mer- 
cies, who  is  the  inexhaustible  Fountain  of  all  kindness. 
How  could  you  ever  mention  "postages "  I 

Mrs.  M'Lehose  was  then  aware  of  the  condition 
of  "Jean ;"  but  neither  could  she  nor  Mr.  Ainslie, 
from  anything  communicated  by  Bums,  have  an- 
ticipated the  line  of  conduct  that  he  had  pursued. 
That  tenderness  for  the  feelings  of  Clarinda,  which 
betrayed  him  into  passive  deception,  became,  at  last, 
culpable  weakness,  injurious  to  her  he  vainly  tried 
to  spare,  and  most  injurious  to  his  own  chajracter. 
On  the  6th,  he  writes,  in  dismal  spirits  : — - 

Yesterday  I  dined  at  a  friend's  at  some  distance  :  the 
savage  hospitality  of  this  country  spent  me  the  most 
part  of  the  night  over  the  nauseous  potion  in  the  bowL 
This  day — sick — headache — low  spirits — miserable — 
fasting,  except  for  a  draught  of  water  or  small  beer. 
Now  eight  o'clock  at  night ;  only  able  to  crawl  ten 
minutes'  walk  into  Mauohline,  to  wait  the  post,  in  the 
pleasurable  hope  of  hearing  from  the  mistress  of  my 
soul. 

But,  truce  vrith  all  this  !  When  I  sit  down  to  write 
to  you,  all  is  happiness  and  peace.  A  hundred  times  a- 
day  do  I  figure  you  before  your  taper, — your  book  or 
work  laid  aside  as  I  get  within  the  room.  How  happy 
have  1  been  !  and  how  little  of  that  scantling  portion  of 
time,  called  the  life  of  man,  is  sacred  to  happiness,  much 
less  transport. 

I  could  moralise  to-night,  like  a  death's-head. 


CORRESPONDENCE  BETWEEN  BURNS  AND  CLARINDA. 


*  O  what  if  life,  tint  tlioQglitiess  widk  of  aU  t 
A  drop  of  hoMj  in  »  dnuight  of  gall.*' 

Nothing  astonifihes  me  more,  when  a  Utile  sicknesB 
d<^  the  wheels  of  life,  than  the  thoughtless  career  we 
nm  in  the  hour  of  health.  «  None  saith,  where  is  God, 
Bj  Maker,  that  gireth  songs  in  the  ni^t  T 

Next  day  he  sent  the  explanation  or  apology  for 
silence^  adrerted  to  above;  and  she  was  comforted, 
and  replied,  as  we  have  seen,  "Why  should  I  not 
keep  it  up  V 

Boms  was  again  called  toEdinbuigh  by  hisExcise 
appointment ;  and  from  one  of  his  subsequent  letters 
to  Mtb.  Dnnlop,  and  other  letters,  we  learn,  that  be- 
fore this  time  he  had  again  joined  with  hia  Jean  in 
that  jomt  declaration  which  in  Scotland  legalizes  a 
mazriage.  FromihiBtimehe  speaks  of  her  tohis  male 
correspondents  as  his  wife  fondly  beloved ;  and  be- 
gins to  tell  those  kdles  whose  rage  and  jealousy  he 
did  not  apprehend,  of  the  step  he  had  taken,  and  the 
generous  motives  which  led  to  it.  But  until  some 
months  later^  the  church  ceremony  was  not  per- 
formed, and  his  secret  was  not  divulged  to  Cla- 
rinda.  The  sober  realities  of  life,  the  strong  claims 
of  duty,  and  the  ties  of  a  fond  affection,  suspended 
but  sot  eradicated,  had  in  a  few  days  dispelled 
i^  fererish  dream  of  the  last  two  months. 

It  is  of  this  period  in  the  Life  of  Bums  that  we 
^  Mr.  Lockhart  saying — ^  More  than  half  the  in-^ 
temning  months  were  spent  in  Edinburgh,  where 
Boms  foundy  or  fancied,  that  his  presence  was  ne- 
««aiy  for  the  satisfactory  completion  of  his  affairs 
with  the  booksellers.  It  seems  dear  enough  thatone 
great  object  was  the  society  of  his  jovial  intimates 
in  the  capital."  We  see  no  ground  for  this  assump- 
tion. His  affairs  with  Creech,  who  had  exasperated 
him  by  delay,  and  hopes  of  obtaining  an  appoint- 
ment in  the  Excise,  were  sufficient  reasons  to  keep 
him  hanging  on  in  town ;  of  which  otherwise  he 
werns  to  have  been  heartily  sick.  But  Mr.Lockhart 
continues — ^**  Nor  was  he  without  the  amusement 
of  a  little  romance  to  fill  up  what  vacant  hours 
they  [the  intimates]  left  him.  He  lodged  that 
^ter  in  Bristo  Street,  on  purpose  to  be  near  a 
beautiful  widow — ^the  same  to  whom  he  addressed 
tiie  song,  *  Clarinda,  Mistress  of  my  Soul,'  &c., 
and  a  series  of  prose  epistles,  which  have  been  se- 
parately published,  and  which  present  more  in- 
stances of  bad  taste,  bombastic  language,  and  ful- 
some sentiment,  than  could  be  produced  from  all 
bia  other  writmgs  beside."  We  know  not  on  what 
authority  Mr.  Lockhart  hcaiea  Bums  in  Bristo 
Street,  and  in  the  immediate  vicinity  of  Clarinda. 
He  lived,  beyond  dispute,  in  St.  James'  Square,  with 
Hr.Cruickshank,  duringthe  fervour  of  theClarinda 
oonespondenoe ;  though  he  may  have  left  hisfriend's 
boaaeforashorttimebefopehewentbacktoAyrshire, 
or  have  lodged  in  Bristo  Street  during  that  shorter 
subsequent  visit  to  Edinburgh,  when  Bums  must 
bave  had  the  remorsefal  consciousness  that  Cla- 
nnda's  professed  lover  was  now,  at  all  events,  a 
janied  man.  Like  every  other  memoir  of  the 
Poet  that  we  have  seen,  Mr.  Lockhart's,  gene- 
'aUy  true  and  fine  in  spirit^  is  defective  in  ac- 
curacy as  to  dates  and  points  of  fact^  to  an  extent 
for  which  no  mercy  would  be  given  at  the  tribu- 
nal of  We  Qmrterfy  Review. 


31 

That  Bums,  now  the  husband  of  Jean  Armour, 
kept  up  the  deception  with  Clarinda,  after  his  return 
toEdinburgh,  no  one  dare  justify.  The  intercourse, 
the  correspondence  was  renewed  in  the  former 
style,  though  Bums  sometimes  seems  as  if  he  were 
preparing  his  mistress  for  what  was  impending ; 
and  also  sometimes  in  the  mood  of  saying, 

«  How  happy  could  I  be  with  either, 
Were  t'other  dear  charmer  away  !** 

In  looking  forward  to  the  terms  of  their  future  in- 
tercourse, the  husband  of  '^Bonnie  Jean"  says, — and 
now  we  are  really  constrained,  for  the  moment,  to 
wish  that  these  letters  had  never  seen  the  light,-^ 

Life,  my  Qarinda,  is  a  weary,  barren  path;  and  woe 
be  to  him  or  her  that  ventures  on  it  alone  !  For  me,  I 
have  my  dearest  partner  of  my  soul :  Clarinda  and  I 
will  make  out  our  pilgrimage  together.  Wherever  I 
am,  I  shall  constantly  let  her  know  how  I  go  on,  what 
I  obserye  in  the  world  around  me,  and  what  adventures 
I  meet  with.  Will  it  please  you,  my  love,  to  get,  every 
week,  or,  at  least,  every  fortnight,  a  packet,  two  or  three 
sheets,  f^  of  remarks,  nonsense,  news,  rhymes,  and  old 
songs! 

Will  yon  open,  with  satisfaction  and  delight,  a  letter 
firom  a  man  who  loves  yon,  who  has  loved  yon,  and 
who  will  love  you  to  death,  through  death,  and  for  ever ! 
Oh  Clarinda  !  what  do  I  owe  to  Heaven  forblesslog  me 
with  such  a  piece  of  exalted  excellence  as  you  !  I  call 
over  your  idea,  as  a  miser  counts  over  his  treasure  ! 
Tell  me,  were  you  studious  to  please  me  last  night  I  I 
am  sure  you  did  it  to  transport.  How  rich  am  I  who 
have  such  a  treasure  as  you  !  You  know  me ;  you  know 
how  to  make  me  happy,  and  you  do  it  most  effectually. 
God  bless  yon  with 

"  Long  life,  long  youth,  long  pleasure,  and  a  friend !  ** 

To-morrow  night,  according  to  your  own  direction,  I 
shall  watch  the  window :  'tis  the  star  that  guides  me  to 
paradise.  The  great  relish  to  all  is,  that  Honour,  that 
Innocence,  that  Religion,  are  the  witnesses  and  gnaran« 
tees  of  our  happiness. 

Some  of  the  Poet's  letters  written  at  this  critical 
period,  are  supposed  to  be  lost,  and  none  of  Cla- 
rinda's  are  preserved  save  one.  Before  leaving 
town  he  presented  her,  still  unconscious  of  what 
was  awaiting  her,  with  the  famous  pair  of 
wine-glasses,  which  she  preserved  as  the  Mus- 
graves  do  the  Luck  of  Eden  HaU^  and  the  verses 
which  give  them  all  their  value. 

The  interval  of  almost  a  year  presents  a  great  gap 
in  the  Correspondence,  abruptly  broken  ofr,inall  pro- 
bability, by  the  treachery  of  Sylvander  having  be- 
come apparent  to  the  mortified  and  angry  CLu^da. 
She  had  sent  him  an  indignant  letter,  the  nature  of 
which  we  only  make  out  from  his  reply ;  which  was 
not  written  till  long  after  he  had  received  her  epistle. 
Bums  sturdily  pleads  not  guilty  to  the  indictment 
which  his  angry  quondam  mistresspreferred  against 
him,  though,  we  fear,  not  very  successfully.  If  she 
was  the  first  cause  of  whatever  was  amiss,  yet  his 
plea  of  perfect  innocence  will  not  sustain  the 
slightest  touch  of  the  test  of  troth.    He  says : — 

As  I  am  convinced  of  my  own  innocence,  and,  though 
conscious  of  high  imprudence  and  egregious  folly,  can  lay 
my  hand  on  my  breast  and  attest  the  rectitude  of  my 
heart,  you  will  pardon  me,  Madam,  if  I  do  not  carry  my 
complaisance  so  far,  as  humbly  to  acquiesce  in  the  name 
of  Villain,  merely  out  of  compliment  to  your  opinion  ; 
much  as  I  esteem  your  judgment,  and  warmly  as  I  re- 
gard your  worth. 

I  have  already  told  you,  and  I  again  aver  it,  that,  at 
the  period  of  time  alluded  to,  I  was  not  under  the  smaU 


32 


CORRESPONDENCE  BETWEEN  BURNS  AND  CLARINDA. 


est  moral  tie  to  Mn.  B. ;  nor  did  I,  nor  could  I  then 

know,  all  the  powerful  circumstances  that  omnipotent 
necessity  was  busy  laying  in  wait  for  me.  When  you 
call  oyer  the  scenes  that  haye  passed  between  us,  yon 
will  suryey  the  conduct  of  an  honest  man,  struggling 
suocessMly  with  temptations  the  most  powerful  that 
eyer  beset  humanity,  and  preserying  untainted  honour, 
in  situations  where  the  austerest  yirtue  would  haye  for- 
given a  &11 :  situations  that,  I  will  dare  to  say,  not  a 
single  indiyidual  of  all  his  kind,  eyen  with  half  bis  sen- 
sibility and  passion,  could  haye  encountered  without 
ruin  ;  and  I  leaye  you  to  guess.  Madam,  how  such  a 
man  is  likely  to  digest  an  accusation  of  perfidious 
treachery. 

Was  I  to  blame,  Madam,  in  being  the  distracted  yic- 
tim  of  charms  which,  I  affirm  it,  no  man  eyer  approached 
with  impunity  1  Had  I  seen  the  least  glimmering  of 
hope  that  these  charms  could  eyer  haye  been  mine  ;  or 

eyen  had  not  iron  necessity But  these  are  unayailing 

words. 

I  would  haye  called  on  you  when  I  was  in  town,  in- 
deed I  could  not  haye  resisted  it,  but  that  Mr.  Ainslie 
told  me,  that  you  were  determined  to  ayoid  your  win- 
dows while  I  was  in  town,  lest  even  a  glance  of  me 
should  occur  in  the  street. 

There  is  some  truth  in  this  defence.  Yet  if  the  ac- 
cused conceived  himself  not  under  the  **  smallest 
moral  tie  "  to  Jean  Armour  during  the  first  period 
of  his  sentimental  flirtation  with  Clarinda,  he 
could  not  hare  so  deceived  himself  upon  his  return 
to  Edinburgh  from  Ayrshire,  where  he  had  left 
Jean  his  wife.  It  was  too  bad.  Or  can  we 
believe— we  do  not — ^that  he  really  was  the  pas- 
sive or  reluctant  victim  of  necessity  when  he 
married.  He  wished  to  soothe  Clarinda.  What 
does  Allan  Cunningham,  what  does  Professor  Wil- 
son, say  of  this  much  canvassed  marriage? 

The  question  has  long  been  mooted,  and  is  likely 
to  be  again  raised  by  this  Correspondence,  whether, 
in  marrying  Jean  Armour,  Bums  was  actuated  by 
unmingled  afiPection,  or  generous  and  compassion- 
ate feelings,  and  the  strong  sense  of  duty  prompt- 
ing him  at  all  hazards  and  sacrifices  to  repair  the 
wrong  he  had  done.  Professor  Wilson  and  Allan 
Cunningham,  both  well  qualified  judges^  contend 
that  his  heart  and  judgment  were  at  one  on  this  most 
important  step  ;  and  they  probably  wero  almost  as 
well  acquainted  with  the  affair  of  Clarinda  as  we 
now  are.  Honest  Allan,  when  bringing  out,  volume 
by  volume,  his  spirited  but  crude,  hasty,  and  inac- 
curate edition  of  the  works  of  Bums,  and  hoping 
to  obtain  the  Letters  of  Clarinda  to  grace  his  work, 
pays  that  lady  many  high  compliments ;  but  in 
the  last  written  volume,  his  Life  of  the  Poet,  he 
says,  [vol.  i.  page  184,]  **This  ^Mistress  of  the 
Poet's  soul,  and  queen  of  Poetesses,'  could  not  be 
otherwise  than  tolerant  in  her  taste,  if  she  sympa- 
thized in  the  affected  strains  which  he  offered  at  the 
altar  of  her  beauty.     ..." 

There  is  much  mora  of  it,  in  tone  still  more 
severo.  And  Allan  Cunningham  also  quotes,  as  if 
from  this  Correspondence,  poetical  passages,  (which 
do  not  appear  in  the  edition  of  Mr.  M'Lehose,) 
which  Allan  condemns  as  **  audaciously  bold," 
though  he  is  unwilling  to  regard  the  composition 
as  serious.  Of  the  period  when  the  Correspondence 
was  at  the  hottest,  Mr.  Cunningham  remarks  :--- 

Bums  now  turned  his  steps  westward The 

thoughts  of  home,  of  a  settled  purpose  in  life,  gave  him 
a  gladness  of  heart  such  as  he  had  neyer  before  kno^vn; 


and,  to  use  his  own  words,  he  moved  homeward  with  as 
much  hilarity  in  his  gait  and  countenance,  ^  as  a  May- 
frog  leaping  across  the  newly-harrowed  ridge,  eigoying 
the  fragrance  of  the  refreshed  earth  after  the  long-ex- 
pected shower."  He  reached  Mossgiel  towards  the  close 
of  April,  [it  was  about  the  22d  of  February.  Cunning- 
ham's Life  of  Bums  is  fbU  of  small  inaccuracies.]  He 
was  not  a  moment  too  soon.  ...  On  his  arriyal,  he 
took  her  [Jean  Armour]  by  the  hand,  and  was  remarried, 
according  to  the  simple  and  efifectusJ  form  of  the  law  of 
Scotland.  .  .  .  Much  of  his  correspondence  at  this 
time  bears  evidence  of  the  peace  of  mind  and  gladness  of 
heart  which  this  twofold  act  of  love  and  generosity  had 
brought  to  him. 

Allan  Cunningham  quotes  the  letters  to  Mrs. 
Dunlop  and  Miss  Chalmers,  in  which  Bums  tells 
of  his  marriage,  and  fondly  describes  the  simple 
and  endearing  qualities  of  his  wife.  Having  given 
these  letters,  Allan  thus  proceeds : — 

These  letters,  and  others  in  the  same  strain,  have  mis- 
led Walker  into  the  belief  that  Bums  married  Jean  Ar- 
mour from  a  sentiment  of  duty  rather  than  a  feeling  of 
love :  no  belief  can  be  more  imaginary.  ...  I  see 
nothing  in  these  letters  out  of  harmony  with  affection 
and  love. 

And  Allan  maintains  his  point,  though  moro  fer- 
vently than  logicaUy,  since  he  proves  that  Bums  con  - 
tinned  to  love  and  adoro  ^*  Bonnie  Jean,"  because  he 
had  done  so  at  a  former  period.  He  speaks  moro 
from  the  hearty  and  to  the  purpose,  when  he  asks — 

But  in  what  were  the  ladies  of  the  polished  circles  of 
the  land  superior  to  a  well-favoured,  well-formed,  well- 
bred  lass  of  low  degree,  who  had  a  light  foot  for  a  dance, 
a  melodious  voice  for  a  song,  two  witching  eyes,  with 
wit  at  will,  and  who  belieyed  the  man  that  loyed  her  the 
greatest  genius  in  the  world  I 

Allan  Cunningham  farther  contends,  that  a  coun- 
try maiden  was  moro  likely  to  understand  the  love* 
lays  of  Bums,  than  any  lady  in  the  land, — Clarinda, 
of  course,  included :  and  it  is  quite  true,  that  while 
his  songs  aro  not,  never  wero,  those  of  *^  fashionable 
circles," 

"  In  busiest  street  and  loneliest  glen. 
Are  felt  the  flashes  of  his  pen." 

Professor  Wilson  is  moro  decidedly  hostile  to  the 
theory  of  Professor  Josiah  Walker  and  others, — 
chiefly  ladies,  however,  and  theroforo,  probably,  in- 
competent judges  in  such  delicate  afiairs.  He 
takes  up  the  cudgels  for  womanhood,  and  for  gen- 
erous manhood  also ;  and  lays  about  him  lustily. 
And  Bums  has  no  moro  fervent,  though  discrimin- 
ating admiror,  than  The  Professor ;  and  has  met 
with  no  biographer  and  critic  moro  capable,  if  so 
capable,  of  fathoming  the  depths  through  which 
his  mighty,  if  troubled  soul,  to  his  latest  hour, — 
"  Went  sounding  on, 
A  dark  and  perilous  way." 

Professor  Wilson  was,  no  doubt  but  partially 
informed  of  this  new  episode  of  Clarinda ;  though 
it  is,  in  our  opinion,  probable  that  the  fallest  know- 
ledge would  not  one  jot  have  changed  the  sen- 
tence thus  solemnly  pronounced : — 

Had  Bums  deserted  her,  [Jean]  he  had  merely  been  a 
heartless  villain.  In  making  her  his  lawfhl  wedded  wife, 
he  did  no  more  than  any  other  man  deserring  the  name  of 
maoy  in  the  same  circumstance,  would  have  done;  and 
had  he  not,  he  would  have  walked  in  shame  before  men, 
and  in  fear  and  trembling  before  God.  But  he  did  so, 
not  only  because  it  was  his  most  sacred  duty,  but  be- 
cause he  loved  her  better  than  ever,  and  without  hor 
would  have  been  miBerable He  writes  about 


CORRESPONDENCE  BETWEEN  BURNS  AND  CLARINDA. 


38 


her  to  Mtf.  Dnnlop  and  othen  in  terms  of  sobriety  and 
good  sense. 

But  the  i^eader,  we  take  for  granted,  knows  how 
Burns  wrote  to  Mrs.  Dnnlop. — "  Only  think  of 
Bums,"  continues  Wilson,  "taking  an  Edinburgh 
belk  to  wife !  He  flew  somewhat  too  fervently  to 
'  Lore's  willing  fetters— the  chains  of  his  Jean.' " 
Again  sayeth  the  oracle — 
Of  all  the  women  Bums  ever  lored,  Mary  Campbell 
not  ezeepted,  the  dearest  to  him  by  far,  ftrom  first  to  last, 
was  Jean  Armour.  During  composition,  her  image 
riMc  np  from  his-heart  before  his  eyes  the  instant  he 
toocbes  on  any  thought  or  feelmg  with  which  she  could 
ra  say  way  be  connected;  and  sometimes  his  allusions  to 
ber  might  seem  out  of  place,  did  they  not  please  us  by  let- 
trag  us  know  that  he  could  not  altogether  forget  her, 
wbaierer  the  subject  the  muse  had  chosen.  Others  may 
have  inspired  more  poetical  strains;  but  there  is  an  ear- 
BestsMs  in  his  fervours  at  her  name,  that  brings  her, 
bratbuig  in  warm  flesh  and  blood,  to  his  breast.  High- 
land Msjy  he  would  have  made  his  wife,and  perhaps  have 
broken  her  heart.  He  loved  her,  living,  as  a  creature  in  a 
dream;  [this  is  not  the  Poet's  own  account  of  it ;]  dead  as  a 
Fpirit  in  Heaven.  But  Jean  Armour  possessed  his  heart  in 
tbe  Btormiest  period  of  the  passions,  and  she  possessed  it 
ia  the  lull  which  preceded  their  dissolution.  She  was  well 
worthy  of  his  affection,  on  account  of  her  excellent  quali- 
ties; ud  though  never  beautiful,  had  many  personal  at- 
tnctiMB.  But  Bums  felt  himself  bound  to  her  by  that 
ioscretakle  mystery  in  the  soul  of  every  man,  by  which 
one  other  being,  and  one  only,  is  believed,  and  truly,  to 
w  essential  to  his  happiness  here— without  whom  life 
is  not  life. 

This  is  somewhat  mystical ;  though  there  is  little 
doubt,  we  Uiink,  that  Bums  was  sincerely  attached 
to  his  wife. 

Yet  m  the  spring  of  1791,  when  he  had  been  three 
years  at  Ellialand,  a  husband  and  a  father ;  three 
years  that  were  the  most  tranquil  and  happy  of  his 
tnwbled  life,  we  find  him  writing  Mrs.  M'Lehose— 

I  cannot,  will  not,  enter  into  extenuatory  circum- 
stances ;  else  I  could  show  you  how  my  precipitate, 
headlong,  unthinking  conduct,  leagued  with  a  coxgunc- 
tnre  of  unlucky  events,  to  thrust  me  out  of  a  possibility 
of  keeping  the  path  of  rectitude  ;  to  curse  me,  by  an  ir- 
reconeileable  war  between  my  duty  and  my  dearest 
widtts,  and  to  damn  me  with  a  choice  only  of  different 
Bpeeies  of  error  and  misconduct.  I  dare  not  trust  myself 
foTther  with  this  subject. 

This  letter  enclosed  his  song, 

«  Thine  I  am,  my  fjuthftd  fiur." 

Mrs.  M^hose  has  either  been  the  inspiration 
of  some  of  his  most  exquisite  songs,  or  the  neces- 
^7  peg  on  which  every  amatory  poet,  Petrarch 
included,  must  hang  his  love  verses.  His  most 
patheUc  love-song— the  most  pathetic,  indeed, 
that  ever  united  passion,  tenderness,  and  genius, 
eflfttsed — ^is  said  to  have  sprung  from  this  unfor- 
tunate attachment.  This  origin  may,  to  some  sen- 
eitive  minds,  somewhat  desecrate  the  song, 
*  Ae  fbnd  kiss,  and  then  we  sever." 

Burns  sent  a  copy  of  this  song  to  Mrs.  M^Lehose, 
hut  without  any  personal  reference ;  as  he  did 
another  to  Mrs.  Dunlop ;  and  the  lines,  also  sent 
to  Uie  late  Clarinda,  beginning — 

*  Sensibility,  how  charming  !" 
•tand  inscribed,  in  his  works,  "To  my  dear  and  hon- 
oured friend,  Mrs.  Dunlop  of  Dunlop ;"  so  that  his 
poetical  compliments  were  pretty  equally  distribut- 
rf.  There  is  another  alleged  'heroine  of  tlie  ex- 
^aisite song,  ^  Ae/ond  Zi«;"  whom  Mr.  Lockhart, 

▼01.  X1.--K0.  CVS  I. 


following  Allan  Cunningham  in  his  Notes  on  Scot- 
tbh  Song,  describes  as  not  Clarinda,  but  as  *^  an- 
other fair  and  somewhat  frail  dame  of  Dumfries- 
shire." The  fame  of  another  song  is  divided,  by 
Allan  Cunningham,  between  Clarinda  and  the 
''  frail  Dumfries-shire  dame."  It  is  that  begin- 
nings— 

^  0  May,  thy  mom  was  ne'er  so  sweet, 
As  the  dark  night  of  December; 

For  sparkling  was  the  rosy  wine, 
And  secret  was  the  chamber; 

And  dear  was  she  I  dauma  name. 
But  I  will  lang  remember." 
Bums  seems  to  have  received  some  letters  from 
Clarinda  in  the  course  of  1791 ;  and  in  the  autumn 
of  that  year  he  thus  replies  to  them  : — 

I  would  have  answered  the  first  long  ago;  but  on  what 
subject  shall  I  write  you  ?  How  can  you  expect  a  cor- 
respondent should  write  you,  when  you  declaro  that  you 
mean  to  preserve  his  letters,  with  a  view,  sooner  or 
later,  to  expose  them  on  the  pillory  of  derision,  and  the 
rack  of  criticism !  This  is  gagging  me  completely,  as  to 
speaking  the  sentiments  of  my  bosom ;  else.  Madam,  I 
could,  perhaps,  too  truly 

"  Join  grief  with  grief,  and  echo  sighs  to  thine!  ^ 
I  have  perused  your  most  beautiful,  but  most  pathetic 
Poem :  do  not  ask  me  how  often,  or  with  what  emotions ! 
You  know  that  *^I  dare  to  tin,  but  not  to  lUr"  Your 
verses  wring  the  confession  flpom  my  inmost  soul,  that — 
I  will  say  it,  expose  it  if  you  please — that  I  have,  more 
than  once  in  my  life,  been  the  victim  of  a  damning  con- 
juncture of  circumstances ;  and  that  to  me  you  must  be 
ever 

"  Dear  as  the  light  that  visits  these  sad  eyes.'* 

The  world  was  going  ill  with  Bums  by  this  time. 
In  the  month  of  December  he  came  to  Edinburgh, 
and  a  complete  reconciliation  was,  we  are  told,  the 
consequence  of  a  meeting,  which  was  thelast .  Burns 
was,  about  this  time,  much  harassed,  and  often  in 
wretchedly  low  spirits  ;  and  hut  a  few  weeks  pre- 
viously he  had  resigned  his  feirm  in  despair,  and 
removed  to  Dumfries  with  his  family.  He  once 
more  needed  a  resting-place  for  his  bruised  heart ; 
some  one  to  pour  the  oil  and  wineinto  his  chafed  and 
tortured  spirit.  In  the  day  of  desolation,  his  heart, 
perhaps,  reverted  to  the  engaging  and  accomplished 
woman  whose  greatest  error,  in  his  eyes,  could 
only  be,  that  she  had  loved  him  not  wisely,  hut 
too  well ;  reverted,  but  with  the  sobered  feelings 
which  yet  evince  genuine  tenderness  for  one  whom 
he  had  bidden  •*  love  him  with  all  his  faults, 
and  in  spite  of  them ;"  and  whom  he  had  come  to 
love  "  in  spite  of  hers."  Some  change  had  also 
taken  place  in  the  fortunes  of  Mra.  M'Lehose.  She 
had  lost  one  of  her  two  children  ;  and  her  husband, 
so  far  as  we  learn  from  a  narrative  which  she  left 
behind  her,  after  the  silence  and  neglect  of  many 
years,  unexpectedly  sent  her  an  invitation  to  come 
to  him  in  Jamaica,  and  a  bill  for  £60  to  equip  her 
for  the  voyage.  He  also  requested  that  their  only  sur- 
viving son  should  be  placed  at  the  best  school  which 
Edinburgh  or  its  neighbourhood  affoixled.  Mrs. 
M'Lehose,  after  considerable  hemtation  and  doubt, 
was,  by  the  advice  of  her  friends,  tbe  liberal  pro- 
mises madeforherchild,andthegoodaccount8which 
she  received  of  the  reformed  character  of  her  hus- 
band, induced  to  undertake  the  voyage.  On  this 
subject  she  had  either  corresponded  with  Burns,  or, 
at  all  events,  had  by  some  means  ai>]>rized  him  of 
het  purpose.      On*  f^o'mg  to  Jamaica,  she   met 


u 


CORRESPONDENCE  BETW3QEN  BURNS  AND  CLARINDA. 


with  a  eold  reception  from  her  capricious  hus- 
band ;  and  she  remained  for  onl j  a  few  miserable 
months  on  the  island.  She  found  Mr.  M^Lehose 
with  a  coloured  mbtress  and  family,  and  his  tem- 
per more  violent  and  wrathful  than  ever.  Her 
health  suffered  from  the  climate,  and  the  nervous 
state  superinduced  by  mental  anxiety ;  and  she  must 
have  been  delighted  to  find  herself  back  in  Edin- 
burgh with  her  son  and  among  her  friends.  On 
hearing  of  her  voyage,  Bums  sent  her  a  couple  of 
Bongs,  which  she  was  at  liberty  to  apply  to  herself, 
if  she  pleased.  He  says  notMng  on  the  subject. 
They  are  those  beginnings- 

"  Behold  the  hour,  the  boat  arrive,'* 
and 

**  Aince  mair  I  hail  thee,  thou  gloomy  December.'' 

It  was  on  the  6th  December,  1791,  that  they 
parted  for  ever.  Before  embarking  for  Jamaica,  in 
the  following  February,  Mrs.  M'Lehose,  who  would 
not  resign  her  character  of  religious  monitor,  how- 
ever ungracefully  it  might  sit  upon  her,  thus 
exhorts  him : — 

Bead  my  former  UtUn  attentivdy:  let  the  religions 
tenets  there  expressed  sink  deep  into  year  mind ;  medi- 
tate on  them  with  candour,  and  your  accurate  judgment 
must  be  conrinced  that  they  accord  with  the  words  of 
Bternal  Truth  !  Laugh  no  more  at  holy  things,  or  holy 
men:  remember,  ^without  holiness  no  man  shall  see 
Qod."  Another  thing,  and  I  have  done :  as  you  value 
my  peace,  do  not  write  me  to  Jamaica,  until  I  let  yon 
know  you  may  with  safety.  Write  Mary  often.  She 
feels  for  you  and  judges  of  your  present  feelings  by  her 
own.  I  am  sure  you  will  be  happy  to  hear  of  my  hap- 
piness :  and  I  trust  you  will — soon. 

When  he  learned  that  she  had  returned,  it  was 
Bums  (who,  at  her  request,  had  kept  up  a  sort  of 
correspondence  with  her  friend  Mary  Peacock)  that 
seems  to  have  first  broken  silence.  He  sent  her 
a  volume  of  "  Johnson's  Museum,"  that  treasury 
of  many  of  his  best  songs;  and  made  these  frantic 
stipulations — 

Shall  I  hear  fVom  you  1  But  first  hear  me.  No  cold 
language,  no  prudential  documents:  I  despise  advice, 
and  scorn  control.  If  you  are  not  to  write  such  language, 
such  sentiments  as  you  know  I  shall  wish,  shall  delight 
to  receive,  I  conjure  you,  by  wounded  pride  I  by  ruined 
peace !  by  frantic,  disappointed  passion !  by  all  the  many 
ills  that  constitute  that  sum  of  human  woes,  a  broken 
heart ! !  I — to  me  be  silent  for  ever. 

Is  it,  then,  true,  that  if  Clarinda  flirted  first. 
Burns  loved  longest?  that  the  strongest  nature 
was  the  most  constant?  Of  her  correspondence 
we  find  nothing  more  ;  and  the  last  of  his  letters 
that  appears,  is  dated  1793.  It  is  written  from 
an  inn,  while  he  was  on  some  excise  excursion, 
— and  is  quite  as  characteristic  as  any  of  the 
series : — 

Before  you  ask  me  why  I  have  not  written  you,  first 
let  me  be  informed  by  you,  kow  I  shall  write  you  1  ''In 
friendship,"  you  say  ;  and  I  have  many  a  time  taken  up 
my  pen  to  try  an  epistle  of  "  friendship"  to  you  ;  but  it 
will  not  do:  'tis  like  Jove  grasping  a  pop-gun,  after  hav- 
ing wielded  his  thunder.  When  I  take  up  the  pen,  re- 
collection ruins  me.  Ah  !  my  ever  dearest  Clarinda  ! 
Clarinda  !  What  a  host  of  memory's  tenderest  offspring 
crowd  on  my  fancy  at  that  sound  !  But  I  must  not  in- 
dulge that  subject.—  You  have  forbid  it. 

1  am  extremely  happy  to  learn  that  your  precious 
health  is  refe'stablished,  and  that  you  are  once  more  fit 
to  enjoy  that  satisfaction  in  existence,  which  health 
alone  can  give  us.  My  old  friend  Ainslie  has  indeed 
been  kind  to  you.    Tell  him  that  I  envy  him  the  power 


of  serving  you.  I  had  a  letter  f^m  him  a  while  aeo: 
but  it  was  so  dry,  so  distant,  so  like  a  card  to  one  of  his 
clients,  that  I  could  scarce  bear  to  read  it,  and  have  not 
yet  answered  it.  He  is  a  good,  honest  fellow,  and  can 
write  a  friendly  letter,  which  would  do  equal  honour  to 
his  head  and  lus  heart,  as  a  whole  sheaf  of  his  letters 
which  I  have  by  me  will  witness  ;  and  though  Fame 
does  not  blow  her  trumpet  at  my  approach  now,  as  she 
did  theny  when  he  first  honoured  me  with  his  friendship, 
yet  I  am  as  proud  as  ever  ;  and  when  I  am  laid  in  my 
grave,  I  wish  to  be  stretched  at  my  full  length,  that  I 
may  occupy  every  inch  of  ground  I  have  a  right  to. 

You  would  laugh  were  you  to  see  me  where  I  am  just 
now.  Would  to  Heaven  you  were  here  to  laugh  with 
me,  though  I  am  afraid  that  crying  would  be  our  first 
employment.  Here  am  I  set,  a  solitary  hermit,  in  the 
solitary  room  of  a  solitary  inn,  vrith  a  solitary  bottle  of 
wine  by  me;  as  grave  and  as  stupid  as  an  owl,  but  like 
that  owl,  still  faithful  to  my  old  song ;  in  confirmation  of 
which,  my  dear  Mrs.  Mac,  here  is  your  good  health. 
May  the  hand-waled  benisons  o'  Heaven  bless  your  bon- 
nie  face  ;  and  the  vniktch  wha  skellies  at  your  welfare, 
may  the  auld  tinkler  deil  get  him  to  clout  his  rotten 
heart !  Amen. 

You  must  know,  my  dearest  Madam,  that  these  now 
many  years,  wherever  I  am,  in  whatever  company,  when 
a  married  lady  is  called  as  a  toast,  I  constantly  give 
you;  but  as  your  name  has  never  passed  my  lips,  oven  to 
my  piost  intimate  friend,  I  give  you  by  the  name  of  Mrs. 
Mac.  This  is  so  well  known  among  my  acquaintances, 
that  when  any  married  lady  is  called  for,  the  toast- 
master  will  6ay,''0,  we  need  not  ask  him  who  it  is: 
here's  Mrs.  Mac!" 

Then  a  handful  of  his  rhyming  waresi  hii  dear- 
est and  choicest  treasures,  are  enclosed. 

In  the  three  years  that  elapsed  before  death  for 
ever  closed  the  bright  and  feverish  career  of  Cla- 
rinda's  lover,  we  find  no  trace  of  farther  coxreapon- 
denee  between  them. 

Few  more  words  are  needed  to  close  the  hiitory 
of  her  whose  memory  must  henceforth  live  in  con- 
nexion with  that  of  Scotland's  Bard ;  and  with 
what  is  the  most  agitating  event  in  his  many  tran- 
sient loves.  Her  name  will  also  live  in  alliance  urith 
some  of  his  finest  songs. 

Mr8.M'Lehose  resided  in  Edinburgh  until  her  de- 
cease. After  her  return  from  Jamaica,  her  son  was 
taken  as  an  apprentice  by  Bums*  friend,  Mr.  Robert 
Ainslie,  W.S. ;  and  the  mother  and  son  thus  left 
alone,  and  fondly  attached,  continued  to  live  together 
until  the  son  married.  She  enjoyed  a  small,  but 
well-managed  independence  from  the  original 
patrimony  secured  to  her  by  her  father,  and  the 
generosity  of  Lord  Craig.  Clarinda  retained  many 
of  her  early  friends  ;  and,  for  thirty  years,  spent  a 
respectable  and  social,  if  not  a  gay  life.  Living 
to  extreme  old  age,  it  was  her  fate  not  only  to  sur- 
vive her  early  friends,  but  her  only  son,  and  all 
her  grandchildren  with  the  exception  of  the  Editor 
of  this  Correspondence.  She  died  in  October  1841, 
in  the  house  which  she  had  occupied  for  many  years 
on  the  Calton  Hill.  Among  her  friends,  while  life 
was  spared  them,  were  James  Graham,  author  of 
"  The  Sabbath,"  the  friend  of  that  amiable  Mary, 
whom  the  reader  has  already  seen.  This  lady  after- 
wards became  the  second  wife  of  Mr.  James  Gray,  a 
gentleman  well  known  for  his  poetical  talents,  and 
as  having  wiitten  a  generous  Defence  of  Burns, 
with  whom  he  became  intimately  acquainted  while 
Master  of  the  Grammar  School  of  Dumfries.  We 
have  somewhere  seen  a  copy  of  very  elegant  verses. 


CORRESPONDENCE  BETWEEN  BURNS  AND  CLARINDA. 


95 


addressed  by  Mr.  Gray  to  Mrs.  M^Lehose,  on  her 
anniud  social,  old-fashioned  New-year's-day  par- 
ties, which  would  hare  made  an  appropriate  orna- 
ment to  this  Yolume.  Mr.  Robert  Ainsliewasy 
also,  to  the  last  numbered  among  her  friends ;  and 
him,  with  all  the  rest,  she  outliTed.  As  the  ^'  fair 
mistress  of  the  poet's  soul/'  she  continued  to  be 
an  object  of  some  interest^  or  cnriosity,  to  the  ad- 
miren  of  Bums.  Clarinda  kept  a  journal ;  and 
horn  it  we  have  the  following  extracts  of  entries, 
one  of  them  made  after  the  lapse  of  forty  years. 
She  sanriyed  Bums  for  nearly  half  a  century  :— 


«25«A  Jan.,  1815.— Bums*  birth  day.— A  great  din- 
ner at  Oman's.  Should  like  to  be  there,  an  inyisible 
spectator  of  ull  said  of  that  great  genius." 

**  eth  Deo,,  1831.— This  day  I  never  can  forget.  Parted 
with  Bums  in  the  year  1791,  never  more  to  meet  in  this 
world. — Oh,  may  we  meet  in  Heaven  !" 

In  looking  back  on  what  we  have  written,  we 
feel  that  we  may  have  been  harsh,  though  not 
unjust,  to  that  woman  who,  apparently,  had  at  last 
acquired  some  interest  in  the  affections  of  Bums. 
If  it  be  BO,  we  must  plead  that  strong  love  and 
deep  reverence  for  our  National  Poet  which  over- 
powers every  sentiment^  save  the  love  of  truth. 


GERMAN  TRANSLATIONS  OF  POPULAR  SCOTTISH  SONGS. 


GzBMur  literature  is  beginning  to  be  enriched 
by  specimens  of  those  of  our  national  lyrics  which 
have  a  close  affinity,  or  rather  a  kindred  na- 
tore,  with  the  popular  songs  of  the*  Fatherland. 
The  Germans  have  now  got  many  of  the  best  songs 
of  Bams;  and  they  appear  to  appreciate  them 

WHEN  MAGGY  GANGS  AWAY. 

BT  JAMES  HOGG, 

0  wbat  will  a'  the  lads  do 

When  Maggy  gangs  away  1 
0  wbat  will  a'  the  lads  do 

When  Maggy  gangs  away  I 
There  's  no  a  heart  in  a'  the  glea 

That  disna  dread  the  day : 
0  what  will  a'  the  lads  do 

When  Maggy  gangs  away! 

Young  Jock  has  ta'en  the  hill  for 't — 

A  waefn  wight  is  he  ; 
Poor  Harry 's  ta'en  the  bed  for  't, 

An'  laid  him  down  to  dee  ; 
And  Sandy 's  ga'en  unto  the  kirkj 

And  leamin'  £Mt  to  pray: 
And  0  what  will  the  lads  do 

When  Maggy  gangs  away ! 

The  yonng  laird  o*  the  Lang-Shaw 

Has  drunk  her  health  in  wine  ; 
The  priest  has  said — ^in  eonfldeBO^>*>« 

The  lasne  was  dirine  ; 
And  that  is  mair  in  maiden's  praise 

Than  ony  priest  should  say : 
Bat  O  what  will  the  lads  do 

When  Maggy  gangs  away ! 

The  wailing  in  our  green  glen 

That  day  will  quarer  high. 
Twill  draw  the  red-breast  ftrae  the  weed, 

The  laverook  firae  the  sky  ; 
The  fairies  frae  their  beds  o'  dew 

Will  rise  and  join  the  lay : 
And  hey  !  what  a  day  will't  be 

When  Maggy  gangs  away ! 


highly.  The  lyrical  reciprocity  will  not  stop  here. 
Our  first  contribution  of  this  sort,  which  is  by 
a  Lady,  and  from  the  songs  of  the  Ettrick 
Shepherd,  is,  at  least,  recommended  by  almost 
literal  closeness  to  the  original,  while  its  spirit  is 
preserved. 

WENN  GRETCHEN  GEHET  HIN. 


O  was  machen  alle  die  Bursohen 

Wenn  Gretchen  gehet  hin  1 
O  was  machen  alle  die  Bnrsohett 

Wenn  Gretohen  gehet  hin  t 
£s  giebt  kein  Herz  das  fUrchtel  tti^llt 

Den  Tag  im  Thai  darin  : 
0  was  machen  alle  die  Burschen 

Wenn  Gretohen  gehet  hin  t 

Am  Berge  wandelt  junger  Jock, 

Ein  Kerl  recht  kummerroll, 
thr  arme  Hans  in's  Bett  gelegt 

Will  sterben,  krankund  toll. 
Und  Sandy  in  die  Kirche  geht 

Um  sich  zu  sohnen  d'rin  : 
Und  0  was  machen  die  Bursehen, 

Wenn  Gretchen  gehet  hin  ? 

Ber  junge  Herr  von  Langen-Busoh^ 

Ertrinkt  zu  ihr  den  Wein  ; 
DerPfaffe  nennt — ^vertwulich— 

Das  MHdchen  gbttlich  fein ; 
Efi  ist,  zu  ihrem  Lobe,  mehr 

Als  Pfaffen  geziemt,  darin  ;' 
O  was  aber  machen  die  Burschen^ 

Wenn  Gretchen  gehet  hin  I 

Denn  schallt  es  hoch  von  Wehe 

In  unserm  Thai  so  griin, 
Es  wird  Rothkehlchen  aus  dem  Lanb| 

Aus  der  Luft  die  Lerohe  aiehn  ; 
Die  Feen  aus  ihren  Betten  von  Thau 

Sich  heben  zu  stimmen  darin  ; 
Juch  heisa  I  was  ist's  fiir  ein  Tag 

Wenn  Gretchen  gehet  hin  ! 


Our  next  specimens  are  by  Crermans^  and  still  quite  as  good  as  manuscript  to  all  English  XUii^vUf 
THE  FLOWERS  OF  THE  FOREST. 


■T  fl.  A.  VON  HALm,  OV  OLDBHBITBO. 
'^IhaTeheardaliUiDg 
At  the  ewea  milking,"  &c.,  &<!• 

Hier  tonten  sonst  frUhe 

Beim  Melken  der  Kiihe 
OeiXnge  der  Knaben  Tor  Tagesbeginn« 

Nun  sehallt  es  von  Wehe 

Im  Thai  anf  der  Hohe  ; 
Die  wackersten  Jiinglinge  sanken  dahin  I 

Sonst  senkten  in  BUrden 

Wohl  Mfldchen  die  Burden, 
Und  seherzten  and  kosten  mit  SchHfem  darin* 


Verhallt  ist  das  Schenwn, 
Mit  tranrigem  Heraen 
Fiillt  jedes  die  Eimer^  und  eilet  dahhu 

Im  Dimmem  yersteokten 

Sioh  MKdchen,  und  schreekten 
Die  Schafer,und  spielten  nm  Kttssegewinn. 

Nun  sitzen  die  Triiben, 

Und  klagen  den  Lieben : 
Es  sank  wohl  die  Blume  des  Landes  dahih ! 

Am  Kirmess  beim  Reihen 
War  Kosen  und  Freien; 
Bei  Miihen  nnd  Ernten  schoU  frohlicher  Sinn* 


36 


GERMAN  TRANSLATIONS  OF  POPULAR  SCOTTISH  SONGS. 


Nob  binden  so  leise 
Die  Garben  nnr  Greiee : 
Die  blUhenden  JUnglinge  sanken  dahin. 

Nioht  t6nen  mehr  friihe 

Beim  Melken  der  Kiihe 
GesMnge  der  Knaben  ror  Tagesbegmn  ; 

£■  Bohallet  nor  Wehe 

ImThal,  aofder  Hdhe: 
Die  wackersten  Jilnglinge  eanken  dahin ! 


PIBROCK  DES  DONNEL  DHU. 

FROM  8IE  WALTER  SCOTT.      BY  THB  LA5T  COUNT  OF 
PURGSTALL.* 

Pibrock  dee  Donnel  Dhn, 
Pibrock  dee  Donnel^ 
Roi'e  den  Itlannen  zu, 
Rufe  Clanconnel. 
Kommet  in  stolxer  Pracht 

AUe  Gretreae, 
Kommet  in  Kriegertracht, 

£dle  nnd  Freye ! 

Wer  in  dem  ihale  lebt 
Oder  auf  Bergen  noch 
Anf  Inderlocky  sohwebt, 
Tragend  die  Fahne  hoch ; 
Wem  in  der  treuen  Brust 
MAnnlich  das  Hers  nooh  BohlSgt, 
Wer  in  der  Sohlacht  mit  Lust 
Hand  an  das  Sohwert  noch  legt ! 

Lasset  das  schene  Wild 

Aohtlos  rich  mehren, 
Kommet  mit  Schwert  and  Schild, 

Lanzen  und  Speeren ; 


Lasset  die  Herde  Bteh*n 

SchntzloB  im  Freyen, 
Lasst  rie  anf  Berges  Hd1i*n 

Wild  sioh  serstrenen  I 

Lasset  den  Fischerkahn 

Frey  auf  den  Wellen, 
Eilt,  euch  snr  Kriegerfahn 

Schatzend  zn  stellen ; 
Lasst  den  Yerstorbenen 

Rnh'n  aof  der  Bahre 
Lasst  die  Geliebte  steh'n 

Vor  dem  Altare  I 

Kommt  wie  die  StUrme,  die 

WKlder  yerheeren, 
Kommt  wie  die  Flnthen,  die 

Schiife  zerstdren. 
Sammelt  each,  sammelt  each, 

Sammelt  each  alle, 
Sammelt  each,  sammelt  each, 

Forchtbar  zam  Sohwalle. 

Sehety  sie  kommen,  sie 

Kommen,  sie  kommen, 
Sehet,  sie  haben  die 

Waffen  genommen. 
Hoch  schwebt  der  Federbusch 

Heiden-nmrangen, 
Lant  ist  daroh  Wald  nnd  Bosch 

Schlachtruf  erklangen. 

Wer  hat  die  MKntel  bin 

Gereicht  za  den  Waffbn  t 
Ktthn  mit  beherztem  Sinn 

Sieg  sich  za  schalfen, 
MAnmich  rich  jeder  za 

KMmpfen  bereite, 
Pibrock  des  Donnel  Dhn 

Rof  nns  znm  Streite. 


SCENES  IN  THE  LIFE  OF  AN  AUTHORESS. 
(Contifmedfrompa^  776  of  our  Number /or  Deeember  1843.) 


THE  PABI8H  NURSE. 

We  are  now  to  see  the  home  to  which  the  ten- 
der mercies  of  Miss  Snig,  the  cousin  and  house- 
keeper of  Justice  Tender,  and  her  jealousy  of  the 
kind-hearted  old  man's  growing  fondness  for  the 
infant  Barbara,  was  about  to  consign  our  little 
heroine  under  the  roof  of  Mrs.  Kite  ;  the  parish 
nurse  of  the  town  which  we  shall  take  leave  to  call 
Deerboume,  though  it  bears  no  such  name  in  the 
county  map. 

The  street  wherein  Mrs.  Kite  dwelt,  was  situ- 
ated in  a  low  suburb  of  the  manufacturing  town 
we  have  before  mentioned.  It  was  the  very  re- 
gion of  squalor  and  want,  famine  and  riotous  de- 
bauchery, ill  fed  and  ill  paid  la1)our,  crime  and 
struggling  virtue.  The  low  tavern,  with  its  vi- 
cious customers,  that  sordid  gulf  that  swallowed 
up  the  bread  of  famished  wives  and  children ;  the 
huckster's  shop,  where  usury  and  imposition  earned 
a  foul  and  ruinous  per  centage ;  the  gin-shop  ;  the 
butcher's,  where  hung,  in  sickly  array,  the  loath- 
some refuse  of  a  higher  market,  destined  not  for 
the  food  of  dogs,  but  for  a  hungered  population  ; 
the  low  cellar  or  the  garret  of  the  artisan — ^homes 
where  crime   basked  unseen,  and  hovels  where 


honesty  and  virtue  (man's  last  and  best  heirdom) 
still  struggled  on  upheld  by  Hope :  such  scenes  and 
such  homes  constituted  the  neighbourhood  of  Mrs. 
Kite.  The  street  was  narrow,  and  not  over-blest 
with  the  light  of  heaven ;  but  about  the  middle  of 
it,  it  somewhat  widened  :  and  here,  in  the  least 
squalid  part,  was  the  house  of  Mrs.  Kite.  In  truth, 
it  assumed  to  itself  a  greater  air  of  respectability 
than  did  the  neighbouring  dwellings :  for  its  door 
was  painted  green ;  and  the  window  not  only  poo- 
sessed  the  necessary  panes  of  glass,  but  boasted 
a  row  of  bright  red  flower-pots,  where  vegetated, 
amid  the  parched  mould,  a  ^w  sickly  plants. 

It  was  the  afternoon  of  a  dull  winter  s  day,  and 
in  the  low  but  wide-spread  kitchen  of  Mrs.  Kite's 
home  the  family  were  assembled ;  and  such  a  home 
and  such  a  scene  few  would  witness  to  foi^t. 

The  floor  of  the  room  was  of  brick,  so  broken 
and  worn  by  time,  that  in  places  it  was  sunk  into 
hollows,  wherein  seemed  to  be  gathered  all  the 
filth  of  a  loathsome  negligence.  A  few  articles  of 
crazy  and  old-fashioned  furniture  were  placed 
around  the  kitchen,  on  which  was  piled  an  anti- 
quity of  dust  and  cobwebs.  One  comer  of  the 
ill-conditioned  chamber  held  a  large  bed,  that  had 
once  possessed  curtains,  the  remnants  of  which 


^  Count  Pnrgstall,  from  his  reaideuce  in  fidinbnrgli,  and  intimate  connexion  with  ikotland,  possessed  more  than  the  ordi- 
nary qualiflcationn  for  the  tosk  he  n^;umcdi 


SCENKS  IN  THE  LIFE  OF  AN  AUTHORESS. 


37 


now  hani^  in  a  thousand  tatters,  and  ill  concealed 
the  rade  flock  bed,  upon  which  were  stretched  some 
ii?e  or  six  sleeping  c^dren,  of  ages  yarying  from 
two  months  to  thiee  years.  Some  seven  or  eight 
other  children,  scarcely  older  than  those  that  slept, 
played  about  on  the  rude  floor ;  some  tied  in  a 
broken  go-cart,  others  seated  on  the  ground,  and 
the  rest  endeavouring  to  walk,  by  the  help  of  a 
ehair  or  table  that  stood  within  reach.  A  wide 
chimney-piece  occupied  one  side  of  the  room,  and 
the  pinched-up  and  rusty  grate,  held,  at  the  hour 
we  speak  of,  a  low  and  smoky  fire,  over  which 
was  swung  a  large  boiling  iron-pot,  for  the  contents 
of  which  some  of  the  Misses  Kite  seemed  to  wait, 
as  they  stirred  the  fire  often ;  and  then  returned  with 
due  diligence  to  a  broken  washing-tub,  that,  prop- 
ped upon  a  ehair,  stood  in  the  middle  of  the  room. 
Mrs.  Kite  was  easily  distinguished  from  her  daugh- 
ters, by  being  older  and  uglier :  and  as  we  now 
present  her  to  the  reader,  she  was  solacing  herself 
with  a  short  and  very  black  pipe,  and  had  drawn 
the  low  chair  upon  which  she  was  seated  so  near 
the  grate,  that  her  feet  rested  amidst  the  pile  of 
aihei  that  covered  the  hearthstone.  The  pipe 
seemed  to  have  had  a  soothing  influence  upon  her : 
for  leaning  forward,  so  that  her  bony  elbows  rested 
ofl  her  knees,  she  took  a  whiff  every  now  and  then, 
relapsing  in  the  intervals,  into  a  sort  of  half  slum- 
ber, though  not  forgetting,  between  whiles,  to  jog  a 
cradle  that  stood  near.  The  eldest  Miss  Kite,  who 
had  probably  seen  some  fifty  years,  was  an  exact 
representation  of  her  mother ;  and  as  Mrs.  Kite  was 
a  tall  woman.  Miss  Kite  was  tall  also,  reaching  to 
eix  feet  two  inches ;  and  as  none  of  the  Misses  Kite 
averaged  less  than  ux  feet,  they  were  known  in 
their  immediate  neighbourhood  by  the  luune  of 
the  <«Six  long  Kites."  Miss  Sukey  Kite  (for 
that  was  the  name  of  the  eldest)  was  dressed  in  a 
staff  gown,  over  which,  as  a  contrast,  was  pinned  a 
yellow  silk  handkerchief,  and  her  locks  of  grizzled 
hair  (concealed  as  well  as  they  could  be  by  a  few 
borrowed  curls)  were  thrust  beneath  a  tattered 
gauze  cap.  In  colour  somewhat  darker  than  her 
unwashed  face.  She  occupied  a  seat  near  her  mo- 
ther ;  and  whilst  she  beguiled  the  time  by  poring 
over  a  thumbed  newspaper,  borrowed  from  the 
nearest  tavern,  she  rocked  to  sleep  an  emaciated 
infant  of  some  six  weeks  old,  who,  either  from  pain 
or  hunger,  moved  restlessly  about;  and  as  often  as 
Miss  Kite  stayed  the  rocking  of  her  chair,  gave 
forth  a  feeble  and  stifled  cr}^ 

*'Cnrse  ye,  Suke!"  said  Mrs.  Kite,  aroused  from 
her  short  slumbers ;  "  can't  ye  rock  the  brat,  in- 
stead of  spelling  out  some  hangman's  story? 
There's  the  t'other  gals  a- washing,  Sal  a-mending, 
aad  Ria  gone  for  the  muffins  :  I'll  take  the  poker 
to  yon,  if  ye  don't  stop  that  imp's  yell.  Lodnum 
H :  Fm  not  going  to  have  its  mumping  cry.  Sleep 
it  shall,  whilst  I've  the  muffins ;  or  it  hadn't  need 
come  within  reach  of  my  fingers." 

"  Stop  yer  tongue,"  said  Miss  Suke.  «  The  brat 
won't  sleep ;  t'as  had  lodnum  twice  since  noon ;  and 
it's  made  it  sleep  no  more  nor  so  much  water." 

"  Then  Dafly  it,"  said  Mrs.  Kite.  **  Come,  give 
the  imp  to  me,  and  I'll  dose  it." 

So  saying,  the  hag  snatched  the  wretched  Infant 


from  the  arms  of  Suke,  and  stifling  its  cries  with 
her  hand,  bid  Miss  Sal  Kite  fetch  her  the  Dafly. 

But  Sal  was  not  more  obedient  than  her  sister ; 
and  giving  the  hag  a  glance,  as  much  as  to  say 
**  fetch  it  yourself,"  she  quietly  went  on  with  her 
work ;  and  Mrs.  Kite  venting  her  spleen  in  a  broad 
oath,  arose,  and  reaching  £rom  the  mantelpiece  a 
phial  filled  with  that  nurses'  comfort  and  death's 
friend,  the  celebrated  ''  Daffy's  Elixir,"  held  back 
the  infant  on  her  lap,  and  inserting  the  lip  of  the 
bottle  into  its  mouth,  drenched  it  with  what  she 
thought  a  sufficient  deeping-draught. 

'' There,"  exckimed  Mrs.  Kite,  *'I  hope  ye'U 
sleep  now,  ye  yelling  devil  1  Lodnum  does  for  the 
t'other  imps ;  but  there's  no  profit  got  out  of  you  : 
for  what  with  Godfrey  and  Daffy,  and  gin,  you 
ain't  kept  for  the  thi-ee  shillings  that  I  get  a-week 
for  ye ;  half  goes  in  duty,  and  the  rest  the  quack 
puts  in  his  pocket  I " 

"  The  brat  won't  tronble  ye  long,  I  daresay,'* 
said  Miss  Sally ;  **  'taint  been  awake  for  three  hours 
in  the  last  fortnight,  and  its  next  sleep  may  be  its 
last.  And  there  are  them  as  live  about  here,  aa 
will  look  sharp  if  it  does  die  ;  for  when  little  Jim 
White  died  in  the  summer,  there  was  a  precious 
buzz  made ;  for  'tis  common  talk  as  how  we  dose  the 
brats.  The  mother  sent  ye  five  shillings  yesterday, 
as  if  to  bribe  us  to  be  kind  to  it;  and  that's  enough 
to  pay  for  one  week's  rocking,  if  'twanted  it. " 

**  You  hussy,"  said  Mrs.  Kite,  **  say  that  again, 
and  I'll  dose  you.  Ye've  taken  to  preaching,  have 
ye,  since  ye  sparked  it  with  Ned  Ruffle  1 " 

*^  Come,  come,"  said  Miss  Suke,  **  don't  be  arter 
blazing  at  Sal,  or  I'll " 

The  threat  was  inaudible,  or  rather  lost  to  hear- 
ing ;  for  the  two  Misses  Kite,  who  had  been  en- 
gaged at  the  washing-tub,  now  approached  the 
fire  to  lift  off  the  boiler ;  and  Miss  Suke,  finding 
the  fire  disengaged,  stirred  it  into  a  blaze,  and 
swinging  over  the  sooty  tea-kettle,  commenced  the 
preparation  of  the  tea-board. 

The  dose  that  Mrs.  Kite  had  administered  to  the 
wretched  infant,  soon  produced  the  desired  sleep  ; 
and  as  it  lay  stretched  in  an  almost  death-like 
slumber,  a  looker-on  might  have  thought  that  it 
was  indeed  its  last  repose,  saving  for  the  laboured 
respiration  that  convulsed  its  debilitated  frame. 
When  it  was  at  length  quiet,  the  hag  raised  it 
roughly  in  her  arms,  and  bearing  it  to  the  bed  we 
have  described,  placed  it  amidst  the  other  sleeping 
children ;  and  casting  a  part  of  the  coarse  rug  over 
it,  left  it  to  its  fate. 

By  the  time  Mrs.  Kite  had  resumed  her  seat. 
Miss  Suke  had  drawn  a  one-legged  table  in  front 
of  the  fire ;  and,  from  the  lumber  of  an  adjoining 
shelf,  had  produced  four  or  five  tea-cups,  each  of 
a  different  colour  and  form,— some  with  saucers  and 
some  without.  These,  witli  a  black  tea-pot,  well- 
nigh  spoutless  and  graced  with  a  tin  lid,  a  broken 
milk -jug,  and  a  large  knife,  completed  the  minor 
preparations.  Whilst  Miss  Suke  had  thus  been 
occupied,  aU  noise  within  the  kitchen  had  ceased  ; 
and  the  children,  who  had  been  before  so  busy, 
stayed  simultaneously  in  their  play,  and,  with 
straining  eyes  and  anxious  faces,  watched  every 
indication  of  the  approaching  tea-hour.  Those  that 


SCENES  IN  THE  LIFE  OF  AN  AUTHORESS. 


had  been  walking  round  the  chairs,  stood  still,  and 
walked  no  longer ;  those  seated  on  the  floor,  play- 
ing with  a  potato  or  a  broken  candlestick,  turned 
their  heads  to  watch  Miss  Kite ;  and  the  older 
and  more  knowing,  had  drawn  themselves  within 
the  shade  of  the  tattered  curtains  that  hung  around 
the  bed,  that  they  might  watch,  with  less  chance 
of  obsenration,  the  dawning  hopes  that  their 
hunger  might  be  appeased.  At  length.  Miss  Suke 
crossed  the  kitchen,  and,  opening  a  closet-door, 
brought  from  thence  a  huge  loaf,  a  piece  of  bacon, 
and  some  butter  in  a  basin ;  and  placing  them  on 
the  table,  exclaimed— 

"  Come,  leave  the  duds,  and  come  to  tea ;  for  if 
no  one  else  ar'n't  going  to  get  it,  I  am." 

At  this  announcement  of  tea,  and  able  no  longer 
to  subdue  their  hunger,  the  youngest  of  the  chil- 
dren approached  the  table  with  timid  footsteps, 
though  careful  to  keep  hid  from  the  sight  of  Mrs. 
Kite ;  and  one,  more  adventurous  than  the  rest, 
aetuaJIy  came  so  near  the  loaf,  as  to  break  off, 
unobserved,  an  obtruding  crust;  and  holding  it 
np  for  a  moment,  as  if  to  boast  of  his  courage, 
hastily  swallowed  it,  and  again  stole  forth  his 
fingers  for  a  second  crust,  much  to  the  envy  of  his 
companions.  But  fortune  was  not  again  propi- 
tious:  the  finger  and  thumb  had  reached  the 
tempting  morsel,  when  lo !  Miss  Nancy  Kite  turn- 
ed quickly  round  from  her  post  at  the  washing- 
tub,  and  caught  the  delinquent  in  the  very  fact. 
At  this  sight,  the  elder  and  least  adventurous  of 
the  children  withdrew  again  behind  the  curtains 
of  the  bed,  and  listened,  with  sad  foreboding,  to 
the  punishment  that  would  be  sure  to  follow  upon 
the  direful  act  of  a  hungry  child  stealing  a  crust 
of  bread. 

With  her  hands  wet  from  the  soap-suds.  Miss 
Nancy  seized  the  wretched  urchin  by  the  back  of 
its  tattered  pinafore,  and  lifting  it  from  the  ground 
with  one  hand  to  a  height  considerably  above  the 
tea-table,  brought  the  other  with  full  force  to  the 
level  of  its  head  and  neck ;  and  whilst  she  inflicted 
repeated  slaps  upon  the  face  and  ears  of  the  hun- 
gered child,  she  gave  exercise  to  the  arm  that  held 
it  by  violently  shaking  the  culprit  during  the  in- 
termission of  the  labour  that  occupied  her  right 
hand.  Mrs.  Kite  seemed  aroused  from  her  sullen 
fit  by  the  bitter  screams  of  the  child,  and  turning 
round  in  her  chair,  said— 

"What,  's  the  imp  been  filching  at  the  loaf, 
Nance  ?" 

"  To  be  sure,"  said  Miss  Nance.  «  This  is  the 
work-house  brat,  mother  ;  and  he 's  beginning  his 
work  for  the  gallows  betimes  :  however,  he 's  had 
all  the  supper  he  shall  have  to-night ;  and  he  shall 
know  what  'tis  to  wait  for  the  morrow's  por- 
ridge." 

"Eat,  eat, eat!  is  all  the  imps  think  of,"  said 
Mrs.  Kite.  «  Curse  'em  !  it 's  Jim  Brown,  is  it? 
Cufl^  him,  Nance.  I  owe  him  a  grudge  for  taking 
two  potatoes  instead  of  one.  It  would  break  the 
temper  of  a  saint  on  yarth,  to  have  to  deal  with 
iuch  camate  devils.  Push  him  into  the  room,  and 
lock  the  door,  Nance ;  and  he'll  find  his  way  into 
the  straw,  I  wan-ant." 

"No,  no/'  said  Miss  Jenny  Kite,  resting  her 


arm  upon  the  soapy  tub  ;  "  let  the  brat  stay  and 
see  the  rest  eat  their  stirabout :  it  helps  a  craving 
belly  to  see  others  feeding." 

Laughing  at  her  own  humane  suggestion.  Miss 
Jenny  withdrew  her  arms  from  the  tub ;  and  bear- 
ing inher hands  a  bundle  of  the  iU- washed  rags,  (for 
they  were  not  clothes,  saving  it  was  some  piece  of 
finery,  the  especial  property  of  one  of  the  Kite*,) 
drew  near  the  fire  to  hang  them  on  a  lint  drawn 
across  the  wide  chimney-piece,  preparatory  to  the 
busy  occupation  of  the  tea-table. 

In  the  meanwhile,  Miss  Nancy,  having  ex- 
hausted her  combative  strength  rather  than  her 
spleen,  gave  the  unfortunate  Jim  Brown  a  con- 
cluding shake ;  and  allowing  his  feet  once  more  to 
touch  the  earth,  pushed  him  into  an  old  chair  that 
stood  within  some  few  feet  of  the  tea-table,  as  if, 
by  the  sight  of  the  forthcoming  meal,  to  add  new 
refinement  to  her  previous  brutality. 

"  If  ye  stir,  FU  finish  ye  outright,"  said  Miss 
Nancy,  shaking  her  clenched  hand  at  the  drooping 
child  ;  who,  half-suffbcated  with  bitter  tears,  held 
down  its  head  in  shame  and  agony. 

The  rest  of  the  children  still  lurked  behind  the 
bedstead,  not  daring  to  venture  out  for  fear  of  shar- 
ing the  fate  of  their  companion  ;  and  some  few, 
burying  their  heads  in  the  tattered  rug,  quaked 
with  very  fear,  least  some  portion  of  the  guilt  and 
the  punishment  should  fall  upon  themselves ; 
though,  as  little  Jim  Brown's  sob  died  away,  one 
or  two,  who  had  been  less  beaten,  and  had,  conse- 
quently, more  courage,  crept  from  their  hiding,  to 
gaze  at  a  distance,  with  eager  eye,  at  the  orgies  of 
the  tea-table. 

"  There's  some  larking  going  on,  I  'spose,"  said 
Mrs.  Kite,  "  or  Ria  might  have  been  home  afore 
with  those  muflins  ;  and  BiU  Woodcote  with  the 
cream :  that's  to  say,  if  he  don't  upset  it,  and  then 
tumble  down  to  hide  it." 

By  this  time  the  Misses  Suke,  Nancy,  and  Jenny 
Kite,  had  assembled  round  the  table,  all  saving  Miss 
Sal,  who,  still  intent  upon  her  sewing,  occupied 
the  chimney-comer ;  and  as  if  the  arrival  of  the 
muflins  virere  somewhat  doubtful,  had  already  com- 
menced a  vigorous  attack  upon  the  huge  loaf, 
when,  to  their  great  joy,  and  that  of  Mrs.  Kite, 
the  street-door  opened,  and  the  aforesaid  Bill 
Woodcote  made  his  appearance,  bearing  in  his 
hand  the  desired  cream,  without  which  Mrs.  Kite 
could  not  drink  the  curly-leafed  hyson  that  she 
allowed  unto  herself.  Immediately  in  the  wake 
of  the  ragged  urchin  was  Miss  Maria,  commonly 
called  Ria  Kite  ;  and  at  the  sight  of  both  muffins 
and  cream,  Mrs.  Kite  condescended  to  smile, 
whereat  Bill  Woodcote  was  very  glad :  for  his  daily 
walk  of  one  mile  for  the  cream  was  rewarded,  six 
days  out  of  the  seven,  with  divers  slaps  and  pinches 
from  one  or  the  whole  of  the  four  elder  Misses 
Kite,  and  their  honoured  parent. 

Miss  Ria  was  the  youngest  Kite  but  one ;  and 
the  muffins  being  in  all  probability  the  handy- 
work  of  some  thriving  bachelor,  and  Miss  Ria's 
heart  being  unoccupied  at  this  particular  time,  she 
had  bedizened  herself  in  such  gaudy  finery  as  she 
possessed ;  and  now  returned,  after  a  two  hours' 
absence,  full  of  smiles,  and  bearing  triumphantly 


THE  PARISH  NURSE. 


39 


iwelrepenny  worth  of  the  hottest  muffins.  Poor 
Bill  Woodcote,  in  aye  some  seven  or  eight  years, 
happy  to  escape  the  wrath  of  the  heldame,  slunk 
behind  the  hed^  there  to  hear,  in  a  succession  of 
nervous  whisperings^  the  fate  of  the  unfortunate 
Jim  Brown. 

The  moment  the  muffins  were  produced,  those 
happy  Kites,  seated  around  the  tahle,  stretched  out 
their  bony  hands;  and  each  Kite  seizing  one,  has- 
tened to  tiie  fire,  anxious  to  toast  the  savoury  mor^ 
seL  Bat  the  elder  Kite,  either  more  greedy,  or 
more  cunning  than  her  fledglings,  had  possessed 
herself  of  the  two-pronged  and  sole  toasting-fork, 
and  had  already  transfixed  the  largest  muffin,  and 
placed  it  within  the  clear  front  of  the  narrow  fire. 
All  tried  to  dispossess  their  worthy  mother  of  this 
fitst-rate  toasting-place ;  but  she,  thinking  of  that 
golden  rule,  ^^that  every  one  has  a  right  to  his 
own,"  held  firm  to  her  muffin  and  fork ;  so  that 
the  Misses  Suke,  Nancy,  and  Jenny,  were  obliged 
to  toast  their  muffin  each  one  as  well  as  she 
night. 

The  toasting  done^  the  buttering  commenced ; 
thiscnded,  there  came  the  crisped-leafed  hyson  and 
cmin,  then  a  new  edition  of  muffins  and  butter ; 
st  the  Bound  of  which  buttering,  divers  heads 
peeped  from  behind  the  bed-curtains,  and  many 
months  watered,  and  dim  visions  of  butter  and 
pfam-eake,  and  savoury  things,  thronged  into  the 
nunds  of  these  famished  children  :  and  if  they  had 
hope  for  their  manhood  or  womanhood,  it  rose  not 
above  the  ambition  of  a  lusty  slice  of  bread  and 
butter,  or  a  red-cheeked  apple. 

The  muffin-maker  had  been  generous;  and, 
when  the  muffins  had  gone  twice  round  to  the  six 
long  Kites,  there  remained  three  odd  ones ;  and  it 
being  impossible  by  any  known  law,  either  of 
geometry  or  pure  mathematics,  to  make  three  into 
six,  and  each  Kite  desiring  one  of  the  three  last  muf- 
fing aundry  black  looks  ensued,  each  Kite  think- 
ing the  opposite  Kite  greedy,  and  wee  versd.  So, 
at  length,  Mrs.  Elite,  being  probably  a  peace- 
maker, tried  to  end  all  dispute  by  taking  into  her 
own  particular  service  the  three  remaining  muf- 
fins; doubtless  satisfying  her  conscience  by  the 
reflection,  that  she  was  entitled  to  the  lion's  share. 
But  to  tlds  reasoning  the  Misses  Kite,  one  and  all, 
demurred;  and  when  the  hyson  had  gone  its  fourth 
round,  a  general  scuffle  ensued,  each  one  fighting 

her  own  battle 

The  combat  had  been  observed  with  deep  atten- 
tion by  those  stationed  behind  the  curtains  of  the 
bed ;  and  it  soothed  the  memory  of  such  as  were 
old  enough  to  have  one,  to  see  those  that  had 
beaten  and  starved  them  with  impunity,  now  re- 
ceiving in  their  turn  a  slight  taste  of  the  vigorous 
chastisement  they  so  liberally  dealt  out  to  others. 
Of  course,  during  this  strife,  the  muffins  were  for- 
gotten ;  and  Bill  Woodcote  saw,  from  his  hiding- 
place,  the  tempting  morsel ;  and  watching  for  the 
moment  when  the  enemy  was  safe  within  the 

diimney-comer,  busied  in  the  heat  of  the  affray, 
he  stole,  with  practised  foot,  across  the  kitchen,  and 

before  another   moment   was   past,    was  again 

safe  behind  the  curtains;   and  long  before  the 

^[aftntl  had  ended,  the  muffins  were  divided  and 


eaten  by  Bill  Woodcote  and  his  hungry  friends. 
At  length,  the  issue  of  the  battle  was  decided  by 
Mrs.  Kite  enlisting  herself  under  the  banner  of 
Miss  Suke ;  and  the  enemy  giving  way,  left  Suke 
and  her  mother  undisputed  mistresses  of  the  field. 
They,  like  all  conquerors,  making  much  of  their 
victory,  added  thereby  much  chagrin  to  those  de- 
feated); whereat  Misses  Ria  and  Sally  hastily 
arranging  such  portion  of  their  dress  as  had  not 
fallen  within  the  merciless  fingers  of  Suke,  left  the 
house;  yet 'not  before  they  had  uttered  sundry 
hearty  maledictions  upon  the  successful  enemy. 
As  to  Jenny  and  Nance,  they  seized  a  candle  stuck 
within  a  bottle,  from  off  the  mantelpiece,  and 
sticking  it  between  the  bars  of  the  grate,  lighted  it, 
and  making  their  way  up  a  dilapidated  staircase, 
left  Suke  and  their  mother,  either  to  single  combat 
or  otherwise  as  they  should  think  fit. 

But  the  ladies,  probably  exhausted  by  their  re- 
cent exertions,  seemed  disposed  for  peace;  and 
whilst  Suke  pinned  up  her  tattered  cap,  and 
placed  the  table  in  its  proper  position,  that  is  to 
say,  on  its  leg,  Mrs.  Kite  stirred  the  fire  into  a 
blaze,  and  again  seating  herself,  dived  her  hand 
into  her  pocket,  and  then  reaching  the  sole  tea- 
cup that  remained  unbroken,  bid  Bill  Woodcote 
make  haste  and  fetch  her  half  a  quartern  of  Tim- 
kins's  best  gin. 

**  I  say,  Suke,  pop  on  the  stirabout ;  'tis  time 
the  brats  should^  be  a-budging.  Come,  ye  devils, 
come  from  behind  the  bed,  or  I'll  fetch  you  with 
the  thong." 

The  group  of  wretched  children  obeyed  the 
awful  voice  of  Mrs.  Kite  ;  and  approaching  within 
some  distance  from  the  fire-place,  awaited  her 
further  commands. 

"  The  three  babies  at  the  foot  of  the  bed  are  all 
awake,"  said  the  little  girl  who  had  been  the  last 
to  quit  the  cover  of  the  curtains ;  "  but  the  one  at 
the  side,  and  the  four  at  the  top,  are  all  asleep." 

"  Stop  yer  prate,"  said  Mrs.  Kite  fiercely. 
**  Them  as  are  awake  only  want  their  lodnum, 
that's  all.  They  ain't  been  dressed  to-day,  and 
that's  the  reason  they  won't  want  undressing  to- 
night. Come,  Suke,  stir  up  the  oatmeal,  and  whip 
in  a  tidy  lump  of  bran  ;  'twill  make  the  porridge 
thicker,  and  the  bread  the  less.  Curse  that  Bill 
for  being  so  long  with  the  gin !" 

After  some  few  grumbling  words,  Miss  Suke  pro- 
ceeded to  mix  the  stirabout,  first  swinging  over 
the  fire  a  round  iron-pot,  half  filled  with  water, 
and  then  fetching  a  well-sized  wooden  bowl,  she 
thrust  her  hand  into  a  sack  that  stood  in  one  cor- 
ner of  the  kitchen,  and  taking  out  the  desired 
quantity  of  bran,  next  added  to  it  a  portion  of  oat- 
meal, and  some  salt ;  and  then,  duly  mixing  cold 
water  with  it,  till  it  became  of  the  desired  consis- 
tency, approached  the  hearth,  that  she  might  be  in 
readiness  the  moment  the  water  within  the  pot 
should  boil. 

At  length  the  gin  arrived  ;  and  the  hag,  snatch« 
ing  it  from  the  boy's  hand,  applied  it  to  her  lips  ; 
and,  when  she  had  thrice  drained  the  tea-cup, 
turned  round  to  strike  the  boy  for  not  having 
made  better  haste.  But  he  being  at  some  distance 
from  the  hand  of  Mrs.  Kite,  busy  in  watching 


40 


SCENES  IX  THE  LIFE  OP  AN  AUTHORESS. 


?iliss  Suke,  and  whispering  to  his  little  friends 
that  "  it  vras  to  be  stirabout  to-night/'  escaped  her 
kindly  intention. 

At  last  the  pot  boiled,  the  mixture  was  poured 
in,  and  the  stirring  commenced ;  and  whilst  Miss 
Suke  performed  this  operation  with  an  iron  ladle, 
Bill  Woodcote  reached  sundry  tin  cans,  and  crack- 
ed basins  of  divers  shapes,  together  with  some 
spoons,  from  the  neighbouring  dresser  ;  and  when 
these  had  been  arranged  upon  the  table.  Miss 
Suke  pronounced  that  the  porridge  was  done ;  and 
lifting  off  the  pot,  whilst  Bill  Woodcote  held  the 
candle,  proceeded  to  pour  a  due  quantity  into  each 
vessel.  When  this  was  accomplished,  supper 
was  pronounced  to  be  ready ;  and  the  famished 
children,  gathering  round  the  table,  dipped  each 
its  spoon  into  the  boiling  porridge;  and  Miss  Suke, 
reproducing  the  loaf,  cut  each  child  a  thin  and 
narrow  slice,  at  the  same  time  intimating  that 
**  bread  was  bread."  And  each  child,  knowing  from 
this  that  no  more  would  be  allowed,  lingered 
over  its  slice,  as  if  reserving  it  for  the  last 
dainty  morsel  when  the  porridge  should  be  done, 
progressed  onward  with  their  oatmeal  supper, 
whilst  Miss  Kite  deposited  again  under  lock  and 
key  the  envied  loaf. 

**  Ma'n  t  little  Jim  Brown  have  a  drop  of  stir- 
about. Ma'am?"  said  Bill,  approaching  the  chair  of 
Mrs.  Kite ;  *^  he  hangs  his  head  and  looks  so 
drooping,  poor  thing !" 

*'  What ! "  said  Mrs.  Kite  in  a  voice  of  thunder, 
and  as  if  astounded  with  the  presumption  of  the 
boy.  "  Have  ye  the  imperanoe  to  ask  such  a 
question  ?  He  picked  the  loaf,  and  he 's  had  hb 
supper ;  and  if  ye  ask  again,  I  '11  fling  yer  platter 
at  ye." 

Bill  slunk  back  to  the  table ;  and  three  or  four 
of  the  elder  children,  who  seemed  leagued  in  mu- 
tual friendship  with  Bill  Woodcote,  obeying  some 
understood  signal  that  their  friend  made,  instantly 
turned  to  watch  Miss  Suke's  movements ;  and 
when  that  lady's  watchful  eye  was  for  the  instant 
removed,  each  watcher  broke  off  the  large  part  of 
its  share  of  bread,  and  hid  it  behind  the  ragged 
pinafore. 

Supper  was  at  length  ended ;  and  Bill  having 
been  ordered  "  to  see  the  brats  to  bed,  and  to 
make  haste  to  fetch  the  beer,  and  something  for 
supper,"  hastened  to  obey ;  and  helping  those  to 
rise  who  had  eaten  their  supper,  as  they  sat  on  the 
floor,  (for  they  were  too  small  to  reach  the  table,) 
he  lighted  a  bit  of  rush-candle,  followed  the  group  of 
children  up  the  rude  staircase,  being  flrst  re- 
minded, by  Miss  Suke,  to  make  the  imps  say  their 
prayers. 

Gaining  the  wretched  chamber  where  they 
slept,  the  elder  cliildren  proceeded  to  undress  the 
younger  ;  and  happy  were  those  who  had  saved  a 
moi-sel  of  their  supper  for  Jim  Brown.  And  how 
that  poor  child's  hungry  face  lightened  up  with  plea- 
sure, as  he  swallowed  the  morsels  filched  from 
bellies  as  hungry  as  his  own ;  and  how  a  hum  of 
delight  sounded  through  that  narrow  chamber  as 
each  one  t<)ld  Bill  how  sweet  the  bit  of  mufiin  had 
been! 

Conwiious  that  Hias  Jepny  was  within  hearing,  | 


the  words  were  few  and  hushed  ;  and  in  t^n 
minutes  the  two  flock-beds  had  received  each  one 
its  nightly  burden.  Covering  over  the  coarse  rug, 
and  whispering  some  kind  words  to  each  group 
of  children.  Will  Woodcote  left  the  chamber  in 
silence. 

Those  infants  that  did  not  wake,  of  course  re- 
quired no  supper,  and  not  having  been  dressed,  of 
course  required  no  undressing  ;  but  those  that 
were  awake,  having  been  fed  with  the  relics  of  the 
stirabout,  and  afterwards  well  doeed  with  lauda- 
num, once  more  sunk  to  rest.  Mrs.  and  Miss 
Kite  being  thenceforth  disengaged,  prepared  the 
table  for  supper  ;  and  the  liam  and  ale  at  length 
arriving.  Will  Woodcote  was  dismissed  to  his  bed  ; 
and  Mrs.  Kite,  stirring  up  the  fire,  drew  the  table 
near  it :  and  thus  amicably  disposed,  we  leave  the 
elder  and  younger  Kite  to  the  enjoyment  of  their 
evening  meal,  to  turn  to  another  scene. 

What  a  busy  day  had  this  same  been  for  Miss  Pria- 
cillaSnig !  There  was  jelly  to  make,  fowls  to  kill  and 
to  be  simmered  into  broth,  raspberry  puffs  to  be 
baked,  and  delicate  cloths  to  be  sought  to  wrap 
them  in  ;  a  note  to  write,  full  of  tenderness,  to 
Mr.  Crumpsure,  and  divers  other  arrangements  too 
numerous  to  relate.  And  Peg  was  hot  and  weary 
with  running  about :  for  the  chief  toil  fell  upon  her ; 
and  Miss  Snigwa8nervous,and  accordingly  scolded ; 
and  Barbara  was  driven  from  the  kitdien,  and 
found  refuge  with  Giles  in  the  garden ;  and  Peg 
wished  in  her  secret  heart,  that  Crumpsure  bad 
broken  his  neck,  and  that  Miss  Snig  was  any- 
where but  where  she  was. 

It  was  rather  more  than  a  week  after  this  event, 
and  on  a  pleasant  morning  in  the  early  December, 
that  an  old-fashioned  country  chaise  approached 
the  town  of  Deerbounie.  Within  it  was  a  lady  very 
gaily  attired  in  a  bonnet  and  doak  of  the  newest 
fasl^on ;  and  whilst  her  companion  drove  with  that 
practical  dignity  that  would  be  sure  to  attract  the 
admiring  gaze  of  the  passer-by,  the  lady,  by  her 
smiles  and  moving  lips,seemed  to  converse  with  him 
on  a  matter  of  the  softest  import.  The  pair  we  need 
hardly  say,  were  Miss  Snig  and  Mr.  Crumpsure  ; 
and  the  latter,  after  arranging  his  stock,  and  un- 
buttoning his  outer  coat,  so  as  to  display  the  one 
beneath  it,  urged  the  horse  onward  at  a  quicker 
pace  ;  and  gaining  the  streets  of  the  town,  assist- 
ed Miss  Snig  to  alight  in  the  court-yard  of  a  re- 
spectable hotel.  Adjourning  to  a  parlour,  Mibb 
Snig  ordered  lunch  ;  and  thinking,  probably,  that 
Crumpsure's  present  delicate  state  of  health  re- 
quired food  of  a  generous  nature,  forthwith  order- 
ed a  basin  of  the  richest  soup,  a  pint  of  sheiry,  and 
a  score  of  oysters ;  and  whilst  these  good  things  dis- 
appeared, as  fast  as  might  be  expected  from  two 
delicate  appetites,  the  following  conversation  graced 
the  repast : — 

*^  Bless  me,  dear  Priscilla,  you  hav'n  t  been  so 
extravagant  as  to  order  soup!  Dear  me,  when  can 
Crumpsure, — ^the  humble  Crumpsure,  repay  the 
loftier  Snig?" 

"  Ah  1 "  sighed  Miss  Priscilla,  *«  by .  But 

never  mind ;    eat  the  soup,  dear  Cssar ;  'tisu't 
such  soup  as  Priscilla  would  make;  but ** 

<^  Dear  Mi63  Soig/'  said  Crumpsure,  taking  the 


THE  PARISH  NURSE. 


41 


vii^in's  handy  "  you  are  too  generous.  I  would 
repay  you,  but  the  Platonic " 

^  Name  not  that  fatal  word ;  but  come  have  an 
oyster,  and  then  get  measured  for  that  satin  waist- 
coat I  promised.  Snig  will  replace  the  watch,  the 
chain,  the  seals,  the  money ;  but  oh  I  let  it  be  real 
lore,  not  Platonic  loye."  * 

^  I  say  Platonic,  Pziscilla  ;  because  Crumpsure 
hath  not  wherewith  to  take  a  wife.     But  my 


«  Dear  Crumpsure,"  said  Miss  Snig,  "say  *  heart ' 
oQce  again.  It  shall  be  love  from  the  heart :  not 
Platonic  love.  Crumpsure  and  Snig  were  not 
made  for  Platonic  love," 

^  Snig  may  love ;  but  Crumpsure  can  only  sigh. 
One  circumstance  preventih— •" 

""Name  it ! "  interrupted  Miss  Snig.  "  Keep  not 
your  Priscillain  suspense.  Say, say thefatal  truth." 

*'  Must  I  say  it  ? "  said  Crumpsure,  claspiog  his 
hands  and  lifting  his  eyes.  ''  Must  I  give  pain  to 
the  tender  Priscillal  No,  no!  I  cannot  speak. 
^'o,  Priflcilla,  you  mustn't  ask." 

^Yca^yeslPriscillawilldoanything.  Say, speak!" 

"*  W^  dear  Miss  Snig,  if  you  are  heroic  enough 

to  hear  the  trutli,  hear  it !     I  am shall  I  say 

it  I Shall  Crumpsure  hurt  the  tender  feelings 

of  a  woman and  that  woman  Priscilla  Snig? 

1  am ^iKvoLVED deceived  by  a  friend  ! 

Foigive  me  If  I  have  expressed  my  unhappi- 
neaa— forgive  me ! ! " 

**  Dear  Cesar,"  said  Miss  Snig,  in  a  tender 
voice,  taking  Crumpsure's  hand,  as  she  laid  down 

a  well-fed  native,  "  say  that  you  love say  that 

I  may  hope  to  be  your  wife ;  and  what  I  have 
in  the  bank  shall " 

**No,  no,   Priscilla! But  your  husband! 

may  Crumpsure  aspire  to  that  tender  name  ? 

The  three  hundred  pounds  I  owe " 

"  Is  it  so  little ! "  said  Miss  Snig,  in  a  joyful 
voice.  Why  should  Crumpsure  be  unhappy  for 
three  bundled  pounds,  when  Priscilla  has  six  in 
the  bank !  But  say,  may  Priscilla  hope— —Won  t 
Cssar  make  Priscilla  liis  wife  ?  " 

*'  Won't  he  !  "  said  Crumpsure,  with  wannth  ; 
at  the  same  time  rising  to  kiss  with  energy  the 
^poUe8s  lips  of  Miss  Snig.  <*  Won't  he !  Pris- 
cilhk  can't  doubt  Cesar ! "  ^d  then,  as  if  to  conceal 
tiie  evasiveness  of  this  reply,  again  he  kissed  those 
lips—lips  that,  for  thirty  years  out  of  forty-five^ 
had  fundly  anticipated  the  present  hour.  Snig  re- 
turned the  salute;  and  Crumpsure,  elated  with 
the  success  of  this  deep-laid  plan,  kissed  again. 
And  the  attorney,  sufficiently  well  skilled  in  worldly 
sabtlety,  knew  that  to  gain  power  or  purpose 
with  woman  was  to  take  her  in  her  humour ;  and 
he  so  well  acted  up  to  Uiis  moral  truth,  that,  in 
one  quarter  of  an  hour  from  the  time  of  the  first 
salute,  he  held  within  his  hand  the  slip  of  paper 
empowering  him  to  draw  and  make  free  use  of  the 
aforesaid  three  hundred  pounds,  and  this  without 
haying  promised  more  than  he  intended  to  per- 
form.     

^My  love, — ^my  sweetest  Cesar!"  said  Miss 
Snig,  as  she  poured  out  the  remaining  glass  of 

*  It  Witt  be  afterwards  seen  how  Mr.  Crumpsure  had 
m  his  watch,  seals,  and  money. 


sherry  into  Crumpsure's  gkss,  *^  you  hav'n't  told 
me  in  what  street  these  Kites  live  'i " 

^  In  Bantling  Street,  charming  Priscilla.  And, 
whilst  you  arrange  the  little  matter  we  have  pro- 
posed, I  will  see  after  this  melancholy  afiair  at  the 
bank,  call  upon  an  old  friend  of  mine,  and  return 
for  you  in  some  three  quarters  of  an  hour." 

It  was  dinner-time  in  the  home  of  Mrs.  Kite. 
Miss  Suke  had  juat  lifted  the  compound  called 
pea-soup  from  ofi'the  fire,  and  arranged  such  plates 
as  the  house  afforded,  when  a  loud  rapping  was 
heard  at  the  door ;  and  a  moment  after,  it  opened, 
and  Miss  Snig  appeared  upon  the  scene.  Inquiring 
for  Mrs.  Kite,  Justice  Tender's  cousin  approached 
the  fire-place  with  mincing  steps,  and  found  the 
person  she  inquired  for  rocking  a  cradle  in  which 
lay  two  infants,  whilst  she  was  otherwise  absorb* 
ed  in  partaking  of  the  better  portion  of  a  juicy 
beaf-steak,  and  on  the  hob  of  the  grate  rested  a 
mug  of  porter  and  a  pipe.  Miss  Sally  wiped  the 
seat  of  a  chair  for  the  new  comer,  placing  it  near 
her  mother ;  and  when  Miss  Snig  had  opened  the 
purport  of  her  business  to  the  listening  ear  of  Mrs. 
Kite,  one  observant  might  have  seen  that  Miss 
Sally  threw  a  shawl  over  her  dress,  (which  was 
arranged  with  some  cara,)  and  putting  on  her 
bonnet,  disappeared  by  the  door  through  which 
Miss  Snig  had  entered.  This  disappearance  seem- 
ed to  excite  no  observation ;  and  whilst  Miss  Snig 
held  her  discourse,  the  business  of  dinner  proceed- 
ed,— ^the  pea-soup  being  served  out  in  the  same 
vessels  as  had  held  the  stirabout  on  the  first  night 
of  our  introduction  to  the  home  of  Mrs,  Kite. 
Two  potatoes,  and  a  small  pieoe  of  pork,  very  fat 
and  not  much  larger  than  a  five-shilling  piece,  were 
served  out  to  each  child ;  and  though  they  ate 
very  fast,  in  order  to  satisfy  their  hunger,  they 
were  not  quicker  than  Miss  Kite,  who,  in  less  than 
ten  minutes,  had  cleared  away  all  relics  of  the 
soup,  bacon,  and  potatoes,  into  the  closet,  and  had 
deposited  the  key  safe  within  her  pocket. 

In  the  rear  of  Mrs.  Kite's  house  ran  a  narrow 
yard,  divided  from  the  neighbouring  houses  by  a 
high  brick-wall ;  and  within  this  dull  enclosui-e 
the  children  that  found  their  home  with  Mrs. 
Kite  spent  many  a  weary  hour  :  dreary  and  sad 
too  ;  for  even  a  child's  light  heart  cannot  silence 
the  cravings  of  hunger,  the  sense  of  winter  s  cold, 
or  the  clieerless  monotony  of  a  life  in  which  no 
sunshine  of  the  heart  is  known.  To  this  yard 
(their  usual  resort)  were  the  children  sent,  even 
before  the  pinched  meal  was  well  ended ;  Bill 
Woodcote,  and  such  as  were  old  enough,  being  in- 
trusted with  such  babies  as  would  not  sleep,  and 
to  whom  Mrs.  or  Miss  Kite,  in  the  present  posi- 
tion of  affairs,  had  no  opportunity  of  administer- 
ing their  usual  sleeping  draught.  This  done,  and 
the  house  cleared.  Miss  Suke  drew  a  chair  within 
the  precincts  of  Miss  Snig,  and  added  her  voice  to 
the  passing  discourse. 

''Well,  Ma'am," said  Mrs.  Kite,  as  Miss  Snig 
finished  the  last  sentence  of  a  very  long  discourse, 
**  what  you  say  may  be  very  true;  but  you  must 
recollect,  Ma'am,  the  children  are  well  fed  :  that's 
to  say,  they've  good  pea-soup  to-day :  then  they 
are  well  looked  arten    There 's  I  and  my  five 


42 


SCENES  IN  THE  LIFE  OP  AN  AUTHORESS. 


daughters  do  nothing  else  hut  mind  'era.  To 
show  you  how  I'm  trusted,  there's  a  matter  of 
twenty  children  in  the  house  at  this  time  :  some 
have  parentSi  and  some  hay'n't ;  but  it's  all  the 
same  to  me  :  I  trate  em  all  alike  :  though  as  to 
the  eighteenpence  a-week  you  speak  on,  you  can't 
expect  a  child  well-fed  for  that.  What  say  you, 
Suke?" 

"  What  *s  it  for ;  a  young  'un  or  an  old  'un  f 
asked  Miss  Suke. 

"Better  nor  two  years." 

«  Eighteenpence  is  yery  little.  Ma'am.  We  can't 
Bay  less  than  twentypence." 

"  But  when  lassure  you,  that  food  of  the  plainest 
kind  will  serre  the  child,  th(a  ought  to  lower  your 
price,  ^er  parents  are  very  humble;  and  you 
can  use  her  for  what  purposes  you  like  :  let  it  be 
the  eighteenpence ;  its  quite  enough  for  a  pauper's 
chUd." 

Miss  Suke  looked  at  Miss  Snig's  dress,  and  then 
at  her  mother ;  and  during  the  interral,  Justice 
Tender's  cousin  looked  around  Mrs.  Kite's  kitchen, 
and  the  glance  seemed  to  satisfy  her  as  to  the  des- 
tined home  of  Barbara. 

"You  needn't  turn  yer  eyes  about,  Ma'am," 
said  Mrs.  Kite,  as  she  obsenred  the  wandering 
glance  of  Miss  Snig  ;  "them  as  has  twenty  child- 
ren can't  be  prim  ;  but  this  Is  a  bustling  sort  of  a 
day,  and  the  house  not  Tery  clean.  But  as  to  the 
pay,  we  can't  say  less  than  the  twentypence." 

"Well,"  said  Miss  Snig,  rising  and  arranging 
her  crumpled  cloak,  "  I  must  seek  a  home  for  this 
child  elsewhere." 

This  ruse  had  the  desired  effect ;  and  in  fire 
minutes  a  bargain  was  struck,  that  Barbara  should 
be  received  into  Mrs.  Kite's  establishment  for 
eighteenpence  weekly ;  which  chaige  was  to  in- 
clude board,  washing,  education,  and  all  other  out- 
lay. 

"  You  must  be  secret  about  this  child,"  said  Miss 
Snig,  placing  a  shilling  into  Mrs.  Kite's  hand. 

"  Ah !  ah ! "  said  the  crone,  laughing  as  she 
pocketed  the  money ;  "  Meg  Kite  has  been  secret 


afore  now,  a  score  of  times.  There's  many  a  secret 
and  many  a  brat  come  within  these  walls ;  and  both 
hare  been  safe,  I  take  it." 

"  WeU,  well,"  said  Miss  Snig;  " all  this  is  true, 
I  daresay  ;  but  it  may  be  some  days,  or  even  a 
week  or  two  before  this  child  comes  to  you ;  as  her 
coming  depends  on  various  matters  not  necessary 
to  explain.  Can  you  send  some  short  way  into  the 
country  for  this  child  ?" 

"  Suke 's  apt  to  travel  arter  the  infants,"  said 
Mrs.  Kite.  "  We  charge  according  to  distance :  if 
the  way  be  long,  Suke  takes  a  helper.  If  you  let 
us  know,  the  matter  shall  be  done  secretly." 

"  I  will,"  said  Miss  Snig.  "  My  house  lies  near 
the  village  of  — ^ ;  and  if  Miss  Kite  will  come 
towards  the  evening  hour,  it  will  be  the  better ;  and 
I  will  have  some  tea  in  readiness." 

"  Very  good,"  said  Miss  Suke ;  "  but  there  is  a 
rapping  at  the  door." 

"  'Tis  a  friend  of  mine,"  said  Miss  Snig,  in  a  very 
gracious  tone;  and  so  Baying,  she  wished  Mrs. 
Kite  and  her  daughter  a  complaisant  good  day; 
and  hurrying  from  the  kitchen,  found  Crumpsore 
in  readiness  to  escort  her  back  to  the  hotel. 

"  Happy  now,  Crumpsure?  "  inquired  Miss  Snig, 
pressing  the  attorney's  arm. 

"  Blessed  Priscilla !  not  happy,  but  over-bur- 
thened  with  a  sense  of  gratitude." 

"  Crumpsure  must  be  happy.  He  shall  have 
all  his  Priscilla  has.  Did  those  at  the  bank  oblige 
Priscilla's  Crumpsure  ?" 

"Yes:  cashed  it  in  six  fifties.  When  shall 
Crumpsure  repay  the        " 

"  Hush,  naughty  one.  Priscilla  is  well  repaid ; 
but  here 's  the  hotel.  Let  me  tell  you  about " 

"  Not  till  Crumpsure  has  saluted  the  lips  of  his 
dear  Priscilla.   The  clock  strikes.  My  watch — -" 

"  Ay,  ay,  the  watch,"  said  Priscilla. 

"No,  no  ;  not  the  watch '* 

"  Yes,  Priscilla  must  be  kind  to  her  Crumpsure. 
Come  along." 

"  WeU,  a  very  little  one  ;  and  then  back  to  the 
hotel."  {To  be  c<mtinued,) 


THE  NATIONAL  ANTI-CGRN  LAW  LEAGUE. 


Mat  their  straggles  be  aided  by  Hearen ! — May  they 
be 
In  the  holy  encounter  as  prudent  as  bold  I 
Of  the  birthright  we  boast,  may  their  triumph  deeree 
Something  worthier  the  vaunt,  than — ^rags,  famine, 
and  cold ! 

Than  that  Old  English  Freedom's,  once  fkmed  o'er  the 
earth, 
Can  the  fruits  of  the  wildest  oppression  be  worse, 
When,  in  thousands,  men  shiver  and  starve :  and  the 
birth 
Of  the  child  that  should  bless  them,  is  felt  as  a  curse  f 

When  their  strength  is  bow'd  down,  and  their  wives 
waste  away 

In  the  sickness  of  sorrow,  and  want,  and  despair ; 
That  the  land  they  still  cling  to— to  die  on — may  pay 

For  the  pomp  of  the  lords  of  the  soil,  stream,  and  air  ? 


Yes  I  while  Nature,  with  free-handed  bounty,  awards 
To  each  cUme  something  precious  to  recompense  toil, 

The  ripecomwe  mightfeedon,nowrots — ^that  Uiese  lords 
May  yet  wring  from  our  hunger  their  own  ample  spoil. 

That  their  banquets  may  still  be  profhse,— they  prescribe 
That  the  landless,  of  laws  shall  but  hear,  to  obey : 

That  the  Many  shall  be  to  the  Noble,-~a  tribe 
Of  the  vermin  they  chase,— a  new  species  of  prey  1 

As  things  made  to  be  scouted,  and  trampled,  and  slain, 
While  our  pangs  can  divert  the  gay  throng  to  behold, 

We  are  worried  and  tortured  : ^in  all  but  the  chain. 

Like  the  beasts  that  their  ancestors  baited  of  old. 

But  the  hunters  are  hunted  !— The  people,  enraged, 
Turn  at  last  on  their  tyrants  like  lions  at  bay  i— 

May  the  triumph  they  gain,  in  the  war  that  is  waged, 
For  the  bondage  of  yean  by  its  brightness  repay  1 

J.  C.  J. 


43 


GRANT^S  PARIS  AND  ITS  PEOPLE.  ♦ 


Oub  of  the  strongest  argmnentSy  and  indeed  the 
onlj  tenable  one  hitherto  adduced  for  a  Protestant 
hiefarchy)  might,  we  thmk,  with  equal  propriety 
be  uiged  for  the  necessity  of  providing  **  best  pos- 
sible public  instructors"  of  varying  degrees  of  abi- 
lity, learning,  and  refinement.    A  homely  or  Wes- 
leyan  apostle,  '^passing  rich  onforty  pounds  a-year," 
may  be  well  qualified  to  show  the  way  of  lifs,  and 
expound  the  duties  of  Hfe  to  the  chaw-bacons  of 
Sussex  or  the  miners  of  Cornwall ;  but  much  more 
knowledge  and  cultivation  are  required  in  the  urbane 
rector  who,  on  £600  a-year,  attempts  to  edify  and 
build  up  the  intelligent  artisan  and  middle-class  au- 
diences of  our  cities;    while  lips  refined,  if  not 
touched  with  a  live  coal  from  the  altar,  through 
which  a  properly  diluted  gospel  percolates  into  the 
cars  polite  of  the  fashionable  sitters  in  a  fashionable 
West  End  church,  require  to  be  set  in  motion  by 
%  very  dllierent  machinery.     We   are  not  now 
spealdng  of  the  Fathers  of  the  Church ;  of  the 
Sbak^eres    and  Bacons  of  the  pulpit — rare  if 
not  impossible  accidents  ;  nor  yet  of  that  electric 
ail-pervading,  all-permeating  power  called  genius^ 
which  may  sometimes  be  manifested  in  pulpit  elo- 
quence, and  reach  and  thrill  every  order  of  sym- 
pathetic minds,  without  respect  of  birth  or  station ; 
Byron  the  peer  with  Bums  the  peasant,  the  Queen 
and  the  village  maiden.      We  could  wish  all  our 
preachers  to  be  of  this  kind,  and  all  our  authors 
to  be  men  of  genius  and  good  acquirements ;  but 
the  thing  is    an  impossibility,  whether   in  the 
pulpit  or  the  press :   and  this  brings  us  to  Mr. 
Gnmt,  and  to  the  argument,  that  there  ought  to 
be  both  authors  and  preachers  adapted  to  the  wants 
and  capacities  of  the  different  degrees  of  intelli- 
gence found  in  society.     And,  indeed,  Mr.  Grant 
is  a  standing  proof  of  the  propriety  of  such  an 
arrangement.    Persons  even  moderately  well  in- 
structed, who  are  at  all  acquainted  with  the  French, 
and  the  recent  Parisian  literature,  or  even  with  the 
writings  of  Mrs,  Gore,  who  is  almost  from  residence 
a  Parisian,  Mrs.  Trollope,  Mr.   Henry  Bulwer, 
and  other  travellers  who  have  described  the  French 
and  their  capital,  and  also  the  host  of  English  who 
have  visited  and  judged  of  Paris  for  themselves, 
may  be  forgiven  for  tossing  Mr.  Grant's  volumes 
contemptuously  aside,  as  containing  nothing  either 
in  information  or  execution  to  interest  them ;  while 
the  great  majority  of  ordinary  readers  will  find  in 
them  an  **  article"  if  not  of  prime  necessity,  yet 
one  which  supplies  an  acknowledged  want,  in 
a  manner  well  adapted  to  their  tastes.     There 
must  not  only  be  milk  for  babes,  but  at  all  ages 
homely,  plain,  and  abundant  aliment  for  those 
irhose  stomachs  will  not  bear  richer  and  more  sti- 
mulating diet  prepared  in  a  more  concentrated 
form.    This  principle  accounts  for  the  favourable 
reception  of  all  Mr.  Grant's  former  works.    The 
critics  may  disquiet  themselves  in  vain  till  they 
shall  get  tired   of  **  cutting  up"  and  ridiculing 
him ;  the  public  like  to  hear  him  tell  what  was 

*  2  TDlmnet,  12mo.    Umdon :  Samiderf  &  OtUj, 


not  known  to  many  of  them  before :  and  so  he  goes 
on  writing ;  and  for  aught  we  see,  having  begun 
with  the  Great  MetropolUy  may  end  with  Pekin.  As 
for  New  York  and  Philadelphia,  Sydney  and  Hobart 
Town,  Calcutta  and,  perhaps,  yienna,yith  Moscow, 
Petersburg,  and  Constantinople,  we  expect  these 
from  him  very  shortly. 

There  is  something  really  admirable  in  the  way  in 
which  he  bears,  or  more  properly  disregards  the  buff- 
etings  of  the  press.  Instead  of  displaying  any  symp- 
tom of  appertaining  to  the  thin-skinned  irritable  ^s- 
Mttf,  he  seems  as  thick-hided  as  a  very  rhinoceros.  It 
is  no  more  possible  to  worry  him  than  a  xolled-up 
hedgehog.  There  is  something  almost  sublime — 
if  from  the  sublime  to  the  ridiculous  be  but  a  step 
— something  very  like  magnanimity  in  this  extreme 
imperturbability.  Certain  it  is,  the  critics  may  burst 
with  spite— and  there  may  sometimes  be  a  little 
envy  mixed  with  it— -before  Mr.  Grant  will  give  any 
sign.  Paris  and  its  People  we  consider  decidedly 
the  worst  book  that  he  has  produced ;  and  it  is  thus 
bad  from  sheer  ignorance,  with  no  mitigation  of  pre- 
vious presumption.  But  such  does  not  seem  to  be 
the  current  opinion,  even  among  those  who  profess 
no  great  esteem  for  Mr.  Grant  as  an  author.  Yet  his 
new  work  certainly  tells  a  good  deal  that  many  per- 
sons did  not  know  before ;  and  like  now  to  hear,  and 
tells  it  in  a  way  quite  unique,  if  not  original :  for  Mr, 
Grant  has  not  only  a  peculiar  manner  of  narrat- 
ing facts,  but  of  viewing  and  judging  of  men  and 
things.  The  most  offensive  blemish,  and  also  the 
greatest  error  of  his  work,  is  his  absurd  esti- 
mate of  the  morals  of  the  Parisians  in  the  most 
sacred  relations  of  life.  What  will  be  laughed  to 
scorn  by  all  sensible  and  well-informed  persons  in 
England,  ought,  whatever  may  be  the  consequences 
to  give  no  offence  to  the  French  people  ;  proceed- 
ing, as  it  does,  from  a  writer  who  is,  in  many  re- 
spects, the  exact  counterpart  of  one  of  their  own 
late  travellers  in  Great  Britain  ;  though  the 
Frenchman  erred  in  malice,  and  Mr.  Grant  has 
been  led  astray  either  by  sheer  ignorance,  or,  it 
may  be,  from  having  been  crammed  by  some  wicked 
wag  or  other,  in  the  way  that  Miss  Edgeworth's 
witty  Lady  Geraldine  is  described  as  having  cram- 
med her  solemn,  coxcombical  English  cousin,  who 
went  stalking  about  making  notes  on  Ireland  and 
its  People. 

Mr.  Grant  sets  out  with  a  history  of  the  origin 
of  Paris,  which  might  well  have  been  spared ;  but 
it  does  not  occupy  much  space.  He  gets  to  the 
houses  and  streets,  the  former  being  very  high,  the 
latter  very  narrow ;  the  shops  not  so  large  and 
elegant  as  those  of  London,  but  more  tasteful, 
according  to  Mr.  Grant's  notions  of  taste  and  fancy, 
and  better  lighted  up  and  mirrored;  enlivened  too 
by  the  presence  of  the  smartly-dressed  young  wo- 
men who  attend  them.  Good-looking  or  handsome 
girls  all  of  them ;  "  tidy  *' — ^how  the  grisettes  would 
turn  up  their  delicate  noses  at  the  Anglican  epithet 
— "  tidy  as  wax-figures  dressed  for  an  exhibition," 
with  hair  elegantly  dressed ;  and  yet  **  no  better 
than  they  should  be,"  as  Mr.  Grant  takes  care  it* 


44 


GRANT'S  PARIS  AND  ITS  PEOPLE. 


explain.  Thoug'h  not  knowing  one  word  of  their 
language,  or  not  above  tliree,  and  having  resided 
among,  though  without  mingling  with  them  for  a 
very  few  weeks,  he  is  as  well  qualified  to  speak 
of  the  morals  of  the  Parisians  as  he  is  of  their 
shops,  signs,  omnibuses,  and  gutters !  Next,  Mr. 
Grant  shows  us  the  Boulevards  in  a  way  that  is 
almost  equal  to  the  peeps  children  have  of  them 
in  a  showman's  box.  This  is  really  clever.  We 
meet  with  one  new  fact.  The  French  nobility,  in- 
stead of  keeping  their  uppex^storeys  and  garrets  as 
receptacles  for  chamber-maids,  imperials,  old  family 
pictures,  boxes,  chests,  and  all  manner  of  lumber, 
keep  their  hay  and  horse-provender  in  them.  Mr. 
Grant  also  asserts  that  fogs  are  entirely  unknown 
in  Paris,  even  to  the  oldest  inhabitant.  '*  They 
read  of  them  in  London,  but  never  see  them  in 
their  own  city,"  and  form  most  ludicrous  ideas  of 
our  fogs.  Somebody  must  have  been  cramming 
Mr.  Grant.  It  was  the  Parisians  that  first  dis- 
covered how  useful  blind  persons  might  be  made  in 
city  fogs.  But  neither  do  the  housesin  Paristakefire ; 
and  persons  far  advanced  in  life  never  saw  a  fire 
in  their  lives.  These  are  happy  exemptions,  even 
to  the  extent  that  they  reaUy  are  enjoyed  by  the 
Parisians.  Mr.  Grant's  strictures  on  dress  and 
address  among  the  Parisians  are  highly  edifying. 
We  learn  that  a  Frenchman's  hat  is  the  first  thing 
in  his  estimation,  and  that  a  personal  insult  is  less 
likely  to  lead  to  a  rencontre  in  the  Bais  de  Bou- 
hgney  than  an  injury  done  to  his cAa/^eau.  Mr.  Grant 
should  have  some  sign  or  symbol  to  let  his  readers 
knowwhenhe  is  waggbh,  and  when  earnest.  Beards 
in  Paris  are  seen  in  the  greatest  perfection  in  the 
evening,  in  the  cofiee-houses  in  the  Rue  St.  Honore. 
They  even  surpass  that  of  Mr.  Muntz,  the  porten- 
tous hairy  meteor  formerly  described  by  Mr. 
Grant.  In  the  parallel  drawn  between  French 
and  English  beauty  and  grace,  our  author,  as  in 
duty  and  gallantry  bound,  gives  the  preference  to 
his  own  fair  countrywomen.  But  the  chief  point 
yalued  in  French  women,  as  we  are  informed,  is 
neither  symmetry  of  form,  nor  loveliness  of  face, 
but  style  in  walking — stepping  out  well.  The  grace 
with  which  Frenchwomen,  or  Parisian  ladies, 
amble  or  trip  along,  cannot,  Mr.  Grant  thinks,  be 
owing  to  the  unevenness  of  the  pavements,  as  other 
philosophers  have  concluded :  for  there  is  enough  of 
bad  pavement  in  the  towns  of  both  England,  Ire- 
land, and  Scotland,  where  the  women  either  move 
like  elephants,  or  waddle  like  ducks.  Mr.  Grant 
also  differs  from  those  philosophers  who  think 
that,  since  the  first  Revolution,  the  national  char- 
acter of  the  French  has  undergone  a  great  change, 
and  that  they  are  now,  as  a  people,  as  grave  as 
they  once  were  gay.  He  keeps  to  the  old  faith 
of  the  old  books,  that  a  melancholy  or  grave 
Frenchman  is  an  anomaly,  or  a  natural  curio- 
sity. If  the  frequency  of  suicide  be  adduced 
against  this  view,  Mr.  Grant  solves  the  diffi- 
culty by  roundly  assuming,  that  **  a  Frenchman 
contemplates  suicide  as  coolly  as  he  does  lying 
down  in  hia  bed,  when  the  labours  of  the  day  are 
over."  They  are  cheerful  while  committing  the 
act,  and,  after  all  is  over,  exhibit,  gay  instead  of 
grinnipg  corpses^  as  Mr.  Grant  witnessed  in  the 


case  of  two  of  them,  who  had  made  up  their  faces 
before  they  pitched  themselves  into  the  Seine. 
Though  Frenchmen  are  exceedingly  polite  in  trifles, 
and  in  their  intercourse  with  each  other,  their  civi- 
lity to  women  in  substantials,  must,  according 
to  Mr.  Grant,  yield  to  that  of  the  Yankees,  who 
would  not  jostle  the  poor  ladies  o£F  the  pavement 
as  often  as  they  chance  to  meet  them.  A  French- 
man is  remarkably  quick  in  his  perceptions. 
He  knows  when  an  Englishman  wants  to  eat, 
by  merely  looking  him  for  a  moment  in  the 
face ;  though  one  of  them  could  not  make  out 
what  dish  was  meant,  or  what  was  really  wanted, 
when  one  day  an  Englishman  (was  it  our  author 
himself?)  ordered  in  a  stair-case  to  eat  his  soup 
with.  The  French  waiter  must  have  been  as 
much  astonished  when  the  escalier  was  ordered 
instead  of  the  cuiUery  as  the  London  tavern-keeper, 
when  the  Earl  of  Kelly,  the  victim  of  a  sickly 
appetite,  fancied  he  could  relish  a  snack  of  a  broiled 
puir  man  for  his  dinner. 

Gay  and  light-hearted  as  theParisians  are,  they,  to 
a  man,  sigh  to  this  day  like  a  furnace,  Mr.  Grant  says, 
when  the  name  of Armand  Cbrrs/  isrepeated.  Accord- 
ing to  Mr.  Grant,  the  French  are  much  more  political- 
ly honest  than  the  English,  and  have  a  much  stronger 
vocation  to  martyrdom  for  their  principles :  hence 
the  reckless  bravery  displayed  by  those  suspicious 
samples  of  republicanism  who  have  of  late  years 
attempted  to  assassinate  Louis  Philippe.  Mr. 
Grant  thinks  it  was  wise  in  Queen  Victoria  not  to 
have  visited  Paris,  as  he  fears  she  would  have  got 
but  an  indifferent  reception  from  the  rascally  part 
of  the  Republicans ;  though  Mr.  Grant  is  in  the 
secret  of  preparations  having  been  made  to  welcome 
the  Ocean  Queen  **  upon  an  extensive  and  splen- 
did scale."  What  Mr.  Grant  will  say  when  he 
gets  to  Vienna  and  Petersburg  we  cannot  guess, 
since  the  French,  he  thinks,  cannot  be  said  **"  to  en- 
joy any  freedom  at  all."  J'aris  is  in  the  hands  of  the 
military,  and  personal  liberty  is  as  insecure  as  in 
the  days  of  the  Bastile. 

The  respective  fondness  of  the  French  and  the 
English  for  theatrical  entertainments  is  shown  by 
the  fact,  that  no  genuine  Englishman  ever  yet  de- 
clined an  invitation  to  dinner,  merely  to  see  Kean, 
though  while  in  his  glory ;  while  the  appearance  of 
Mademoiselle  Rachel  would  cause  a  dozen  fashion- 
able dinner-parties  in  Paris  to  be  postponed.  Now 
Mr.  Grant  talks  over  all  these  matters,  and  many 
more,  familiar  as  his  garter.  He  is  aufait  to  every- 
thing. One  piece  of  useful  economicsd  information 
he  gives :  An  Englishman  in  Paris,  if  a  good  mana- 
ger, may  contrive  to  enter  half-a-dozen  theatres  in 
one  night,  (and  so  may  a  Frenchman  we  presume,) 
upon  the  price  of  one  ticket.  First,  he  sells  his 
ticket  early  in  the  night  at  the  door  of  one  theatre 
for  two-thirds  of  the  original  price ;  then  at  another 
for  half-price ;  at  a  third  for  third  price,  and  so  on 
downwards  :  for  though  there  is  no  regular  half- 
price,  there  are  always  hangers-on  about  the 
doors  of  the  theatres,  ready  to  bargain  for  tickets, 
or  what  we  call  checks.  The  damnation  of  all  oe^ 
pieces  is,  in  Paris,  mercifully  delayed  for  a  f«^' 
days  of  grace,  either  to  favour  the  author  and 
manager,  or  to  give  the  critics  leisure  to  make  up 


GRANT'S  PARIS  AND  ITS  PEOPLE. 


45 


their  mmdsy  after  feeling  the  pulae  of  a  public,  in 
which  every  man  and  woman  goes  to  the  theatre, 
and  all  are  dramatic  critics.  Mr.  Grant  says,  that 
an  unsuccessfol  dramatist  often  next  day  commits 
goicide.  Now,  after  a  man  has  slept  and  waked 
upon  the  blow,  we  would  fain  hope  that  he  might  in 
general,  get  courage  to  sustain  it.  The  English  plan 
of  printing,and  *'&haming  the  rogues," isbetter  than 
this.  A  Parisian  Beaumont  and  Fletcher,  either 
in  1831  or  1832 — ^for  Mr.  Grant  does  not  remem- 
ber, and  he  is  a  mighty  stickler  for  exactness  on 
some  small  points — finished  themselves  in  com- 
pany, because  their  piece  had  failed.  Mr.  Grant, 
who  has  always  been  great  in  statistics,  asserts, 
that  there  are  from  one  hundred  and  fifty  to  one 
hondred  and  eighty  dramatic  writers,  of  whom  not 
more  tiian  a  dozen  make  salt  to  their  soup ;  and 
only  three  or  four,  with  Dumas  at  their  head, 
make  large  sums  of  money.  The  term  of  copy- 
right indramas  has  now  been  considerably  abridged ; 
bat  Mr.  Grant  relates  the  fact,  curious  if  true, 
t)f  a  grand-daughter  of  the  great  Comeille  having, 
vsM  a  recent  period,  enjoyed  a  handsome  yearly 
income  &om  the  representation  of  Comeille's  plays. 
Mr.  Grant  talks  as  well  and  wisely  on  war,  its 
misefaieroas  effects  and  its  sinfulness,  as  Joseph 
Stdige  could  do.  He  asserts,  as  has  been  done 
before  him,  that  hired  soldiers  are  the  worst  of 
muderera  ;  as  they  kill  upon  system,  and  in  cold 
blood.  Louis  Philippe  he  considers  a  selfish  per- 
son, but  as  good  a  family-man  as,  we  presume,  a 
Dutch  Yankee ;  devotedly  attached  to  his  wife, 
and  doatingly  fond  of  his  children ;  but  flint  to  all 
the  rest  of  mankind.  Mr.  Grant,  who  seems  to 
haTe  got  personally  perfectly  well  acquainted 
with  Louis  Philippe  since  he  went  abroad,  says, 
that  if  business  did  not  force  the  king  out,  he  would 
never  leave  the  family  fireside.  He  does  not  think 
his  friend  Louis  at  all  a  thoroughly  bad  man,  only 
he  baa  not  the  slightest  disposition  to  do  any  good 
whatever.  He  is  also  a  little  tyrannical,  a  good 
deal  auspicious,  and  exceedingly  avaricious ;  but 
saving  these,  no  one  can  say  "  black  is  the  white 
of  hia  eye."  Mr.  Grant,  moreover,  assures  the 
lovers  of  Peace,  that  his  friend,  the  French  king, 
is  as  peacefully  disposed  as  themselves.  It  is 
extremely  problematical  whether  Mr.  Grant,  with 
all  his  industry,  ever  saw  Louis  Philippe,  whose 
personal  appearance  he  describes  not  a  whit  the 
worse  for  that ;  but  he  has  seen  Guizot  in  Lon- 
don, at  an  Exeter  Hall  meeting.  Guizot  is  a 
Protestant ;  but,  Mr.  Grant  is  sorry  to  find,  does 
not  attend  the  church  very  regulaiiy. 

The  French  nobility  seem  to  be  in  a  woeful 
state  by  the  account  here  given  of  them.  Mr. 
Oiant  was  asked  to  the  house  of  a  grocer — or  per- 
haps it  was  not  liimself,  but  some  one  else,  for 
he  has  a  very  hypothetical  way  of  putting  things 
—and  behold  the  wife  of  the  grocer  is  found  to  be 
the  daughter  of  "  an  illustrious  Duke,  who  was 
the  bosom  friend  of  the  King  of  France  !"  and  the 
pCTBon  from  whom  you  buy  your  butter  for  break- 
^Mt,  married,  the  other  day,  **  the  grand-daughter 
of  a  noble  Marqnis,  the  friend,  and  favourite,  and 
constant  associate  of  Louis  XVI.  and  Marie  An- 
toinette."   What  does  the  Fauxbourg  St;  Ger- 


main  say  to  these  horrible  metaUianeet  ?  Merely 
smile  and  shrug  its  incredulous  shoulders.  Mr. 
Grant  has  made  another  great  discovery.  Every 
family  in  Paris  that  can  afford  to  spend  from 
i:700  to  £1000  a-year,  belongs  to  the  <*  higher 
classes."  Were  this  rule  extended  to  London, 
what  an  increase  the  **  higher  classes"  would  gain 
in  one  day !  Mr.  Grant  considers  the  French  no- 
bility even  more  frivolous  and  heartless  than  our 
ownaristocracy ;  and  he,  by  means  of  some  talisman, 
seems  to  have  looked  not  only  into  their  saloons 
and  boudoirs,  but  into  their  breasts.  Mr.  Grant 
found  less  hospitality  among  the  middle  classes  than 
he  expected  ;  but  he  reasonably  enough  recollects, 
that  it  is  absurd  to  expect  to  be  asked  to  dinner 
with  them,  since  they  seldom  dine  at  home  them- 
selves. Besides,  the  wife  has  no  leisure  to  be  in- 
tent on  hospitable  thoughts,  as  she  must  attend  to 
the  shop, of  which  the  husband  takes  butafatherless 
charge.  Instead  of  amassing  his  plum,  and  trying 
to  double  or  triple  it,  like  a  John  BuU,  or  go  for 
the  half  million,  the  sensible  and  happy  French- 
man is  content  to  retire  upon  an  income  of  from 
£260  to  £300  a-year,  to  study  the  Journals,  attend 
the  Theatres,  and  make  love.  We  must  quote  the 
text  for  the  third  class,  as  we  have  much  more  de- 
pendence upon  the  traveller's  own  eyes  than  upon 
the  information  he  acquired  otherwise,  or  on  his 
judgment  of  what  was  reported  to  him : — 

It  is  impossible  for  any  Englishman  to  pass  along  the 
streets  of  Paris,  without  being  struck  with  the  aspect  of 
superior  comfort  which  he  sees  in  the  lower  classes. 
His  e  je  is  seldom  offended  by  the  ragged  and  dirty  clothes 
which  meet  the  vision  in  the  streets  of  London  ;  nor  are 
his  feelings  often  wounded  by  the  sight  of  those  squalid- 
looking  creatures  in  human  form,  that  are  constantly  to 
be  seen  in  the  highways  and  by-ways  of  this  metropo- 
lis. The  humblest  persons  in  Paris  are,  with  very  few 
exceptions,  decently  clothed.  And  there  is  something 
in  their  appearance  which  indicates  a  degree  of  content- 
ment and  comfort,  which  is  not  visible  among  the  lower 
classes  of  this  country.  You  see  no  traces  of  care  or 
anxiety  in  their  countenances.  And  not  only  do  they 
seem,  but  they  actually  are,  healthy  and  happy. 

Buty  to  counterbalance  this,  they  live  upon 
much  less  and  worse  food  than  the  English  la- 
bourer, and  the  Englishman  will  do  **  three  or  four 
times  as  much  work."  It  has  long  been  well  known 
that  an  Englishman  can  beat  four  Frenchmen ; 
and  with  the  exception,  perhaps,  of  an  American, 
working  by  the  piece,  no  man  can  surpass  or  equal 
the  Englishman;  the  hardest  worker,  and  most  per- 
fect and  skilful  artisan,  and  of  a  race  whom  it  has 
taken  ages  to  train  into  what  we  see  them ;  but "  three 
or  four  times"  is  too  much.  The  French  are  *'only 
fit  for  the  lighter  sort  of  labour  ;"  so,  who  does  all 
the  liard  work  in  France  we  cannot  tell,  unless  it 
be  the  women.  After  all,  the  superior  condition 
of  the  working-classes  in  France  must  not  be  so 
decided  as  the  above  extract  gave  us  reason  to  be- 
lieve. Their  wages  are  much  lower,  their  food 
worse  and  more  scanty,  their  physical  strength  less, 
and  they  are  past  their  labour  at  forty-five.  We 
would  not  advise  our  readers  to  depend  altogether 
upon  Mr.  Grant's  statistics,  though  he  seems  to  have 
consulted  the  latest  authorities ;  and  he  must  have 
known  a  great  deal  of  what  he  gravely  reports 
upon,  quite  as  well  befoie  he  entered  Paris  as  after 


4e 


GRANT'S  PARIS  AND  ITS  PEOPLE. 


he  left  it*  He  Uys  down,  that  **  there  is  notori- 
onsly  ilo  pure  or  ardent  afiBection  between  the  hus- 
iwind  and  wife  in  Paris,"  though  '*  there  are  some 
exceptions."  This  is  owing  to  the  way  in  which 
courtship  and  marriage  are  managed  in  France. 

A  husband's  affections  are  comparatiyely  seldom  set 
on  bis  wife.  The  same  obaenration  holds  equally  good 
in  reference  to  her  affections.  They  are  monopolized  hy 
some  one  else.  Her  husband  has  not  even  a  share  in 
them.  It  is  the  rule,  not  the  exception,  for  a  husband 
to  be  deeply  in  love  with  some  other  married  lady,  and 
his  wife  to  be  in  love  with  some  other  gentleman.  A 
lady  is  not,  indeed,  trained  up  in  the  notion  that  she  is 
to  find  in  her  husband  one  whom  she  can  loye.  She  is 
told — in  some  instances  by  her  mother — that  she  will 
get  a  lover  to  her  mind  after  she  is  married.  Incredible 
as  this  may  seem,  I  haye  it  from  a  source  which  renders 
it  impossible  for  me  to  doubt  the  &ct.  A  young  lady  is 
asked  how  she  likes  the  party  proposed  for  her  husband, 
after  she  has  seen  him  for  the  first  time.  She  replies — 
"  Oh,  he  is  a  perfect  monster  !  I  cannot  endure  the 
very  sight  of  him." — ^  Never  mind,  dear,"  is  the  com- 
forting remark  of  her  mamma,  or  of  some  near  matronly 
relative  ;  '*  you  can  choose  a  lover  for  yourself  after  the 
marriage  is  over."  I  know  the  difficulty  there  will  be 
in  getting  the  English  public  to  credit  this. 

Difficult  1  why  Mr.  Grant,  you  will  find  it 
impossible.  What  donkeys  do  you  take  us  for 
on  this  side  the  Channel?  Do  you  believe  this 
yourself— or  yet  this  that  follows  ?  or  what  pretty 
sort  of  company  did  you  get  into  while  in  Paris? 

When  I  first  heard  the  statement  I  was  equally  in- 
credulous myself  as  to  its  truth.  But  my  incredulity 
was  soon  obliged  to  give  way  to  evidence.  I  must,  how- 
ever, ffuard  against  wishing  it  to  be  supposed,  that  a 
very  large  proportion  of  mothers,  or  near  relatives, 
would  talk  in  this  way  to  a  young  lady  when  speaking 
of  her  marriage.  I  only  vouch  for  the  fact  of  such  lan- 
guage being  employed  in  various  instances 

The  reader  will  no  doubt  ask,  if  intrigues  are  going  on 
with  others,  both  by  the  husband  and  wife,  does  not 
each  sooner  or  later  discover  the  criminal  conduct  of  the 
other,  and  a  scene  of  quarrelling  ensue !  The  discovery 
is  quite  a  common  thing  ;  but  a  quarrel  seldom  follows 
it.  Not  only  do  both  exercise  forbearance,  because 
both  are  known  to  be  equally  guilty,  but  conjugal  infi- 
delity is  thought  ezceediugly  little  of  in  Paris.  Its 
very  prevalence,  in  Parisian  estimation,  lessens  its  ori- 
Aiinality.  Except  among  the  very  highest  classes,  a 
woman  in  Paris  is  not,  as  in  England,  excluded  from 
society  because  she  is  publicly  known  to  have  carried 
on  an  improper  intimacy  with  one  of  our  sex.  Nor  does 
she  herself  feel,  far  less  betray,  any  self-reproach  on  that 
account.  She  mingles  in  society  as  unblushingly  as  the 
most  virtuous  woman  in  Paris.  Her  husband  seems  to 
view  the  matter  in  the  same  light ;  and  she  extends  a 
similar  indulgence  towards  him  in  reference  to  his 
amours  vrith  the  lady  of  his  choice.  There  is,  in  other 
words,  a  conventional  understanding  between  them, 
that  they  shall  not  quarrel  about  matters  of  this  nature. 
Nothing,  therefore,  could  be  seemingly  more  happy  than 
a  Frenchman  and  his  wife.  They  are  as  pleasant  to 
each  other  as  could  be  desired. 

When  we  said  that  many  other  able  English 
travellers  had  of  late  years  given  us  lively  descrip- 
tions of  Paris  and  its  People,  we  must  confess  that 
none  of  them,  not  even  Mr.  Henry  Bulwer,  has 
said  or  insinuated  an3rthing  approaching  this ; 
and  a  good  many  more  of  the  same  sort  of  novelties. 
Great  novelties  they  must  be  to  Parisian  husbands 
and  wives,  who  are  little  aware  of  the  state  of 
blissful  freedom  in  which  they  live ;  or  yet  of  "  the 
chield  amang  them  takin  notes."  French  girls  afe, 
it  appears,  extremely  desirous  of  being  married, 
and  no  wonder,  since— 


"  The  utterance  of  the  words  wbieh  proelalm  her  to 
be  a  wife,  is  like  the  proclamation  of  liberty  to  one 
who  has  been  a  captive  all  his  life.  That  moment  siiS 
is  **  emancipated,  duenthralled," — at  liberty  to  go  where 
she  pleases,  and,  in  more  respects  than  people  in  this 
country  have  any  idea  of,  to  do  as  she  pleases.  She  then 
becomes  perfect  mistress  of  her  own  actions.  She  is  all  at 
onoe  transferred  from  a  state  of  intolerable  bondage  to 
one  of  the  most  perfect  freedom.  She  is  now  to  be 
seen  alone  in  the  streets,  and  in  all  public  places  in  Paris. 
Her  appearance  at  the  theatres,  should  she  be  inclined 
to  go  alone,  will  excite  no  remark,  though  married  ladieR 
seldom  visit  these  places  without  being  accompanied  by 
some  male  or  female  firiend.  She  may  be  seen  every  day 
in  the  week,  and  every  hour  in  the  day,  with  the  same 
gentleman,  or  with  a  different  gentleman  every  day,— 
and  yet  her  conduct  call  forth  no  animadversion  flrom  her 
friends.  The  latitude  of  conduct  allowed  to  French 
married  ladies,  is  wholly  opposed  to  all  our  English  ideis 
of  propriety.  Nor  does  the  husband  hint  his  disappro* 
bation  of  the  liberty  of  action  which  she  claims  for 
herself.  On  the  contrary,  he  is  pleased  to  see  others  of 
our  sex  lavishing  their  attentions  on  his  vrife.  Atten- 
tions which,  if  paid  to  an  Englishman's  wife,  would  in- 
stinctively suggest  to  his  mind  the  propriety  of  looking 
out  for  a  whip,  or  some  other  instrument  adapted  to  in- 
fiict  personal  punishment,  aiTord  the  greatest  gratifi- 
cation to  a  Frenchman,  when  his  wife  is  the  object  of 
them. 

Mr.  Grant  becomes  still  more  marvellous  and 
mysterious  on  the  subject  of  the  number  to  which 
the  children  in  a  family  are,  on  some  Malthusian 
principle,  restricted. 

One  of  the  first  questions,  indeed,  which  the  lady- 
friends  of  a  newly  married  lady  put  to  her,  relates  to 
the  number  of  children  she  means  to  have.  The  number 
agreed  on  is  two,  three,  four,  or  five,  according  to  cir- 
cumstances ;  though,  as  already  mentioned,  the  more 
common  number  is  three. 

How  some  waggish  rogue  must  have  crammed 
our  simple  traveller !  who  does  not,  however,  in 
this  case  undertake  to  philosophize,  only  to  record 
facts.  The  babies  of  Paris  are  all  sent  into  the 
country  to  be  nursed  almost  the  moment  they  are 
bom ;  and  as  their  parents  never  see  them  again 
until  they  are  beginning  to  walk  and  talk,  they 
cannot  be  sure  of  their  *^  certain  identification." 
However,  Mr.  Grant  does  not  think  that  the 
children  are  changed  bo  often  as  they  would  be  in 
England ;  and  for  this  good  reason,  that  the  nurse 
could  not  greatly  enrich  her  own  infant  by  the 
change,  though  she  were  so  unprincipled  and  un* 
natural  as  to  pass  it  off  for  her  foster-child.  Has 
Mr.  Grant  never  read  Paul  Kook's  novels?  If 
he  had,  he  might  have  known  a  little  more  of  the 
christenings  and  nursings  of  the  middle-classes  of 
Paris,  among  whom  a  visit  to  the  baby  at  nurse  in 
the  country  is  a  favourite  holiday  recreation  to 
the  family  to  which  it  belongs. 

According  to  Mr.  Grant's  account,  which  is, 
moreover,  corroborated  by  other  authorities,  one 
does  not  see  much  use  for  the  men  of  the  middle- 
class  at  all.  The  babies  are  nursed  in  the  coun- 
try till  fit  to  be  sent  to  school;  housekeeping 
is  nearly  superseded  by  clubs,  and  restaurants, 
and  tables  d'h6te ;  and  the  married  women,  with  the 
aid  of  the  pretty  girls,  manage  all  the  ai^irs  of 
business :— - 

The  shopkeepers  of  Paris  are  rarely  to  be  found  in 
their  shops ;  and  their  vrives  are  never  out  of  them. 
From  an  early  hour  in  the  morning  till  the  shop  cloeee 
in  the  evening,  they  are  to  be  seen  applying  themselves 
to  business  with  an  assidaity  which  exceeds  all  praise. 


GRANT'S  PARIS  AND  ITS  PEOPLE. 


47 


Thay  ordtf  gMds,  attend  to  cnstomen,  make  up 
pareek,  pay  away  money,  receive  aecounte,  keep  the 
booki ;  do,  In  short,  the  whole  of  the  httsiness.  It  is 
ft  rery  eonunon  circumstance  for  a  hushand  to  have  no 
specific  knowledi^  of  the  goods  on  hand,  or  of  the  ge- 
neral details  of  his  business.  In  comparatiyely  few 
cues  does  he  possess  any  such  minute  knowledge, 
from  his  personal  examination  into  the  state  of  mat- 
ters. If  he  possess  it,  he  is  indebted  to  his  wife  for  it. 
.ill  young  females  in  Paris  in  the  middle  walks  of  life, 
are  educated  with  a  view  to  business.  Talk  to  a  young 
lady  in  any  of  our  English  boarding  schools,  or  in  any 
respectable  fiunily,  about  the  propriety  of  her  studying 
the  art  of  book-keeping,  and  she  would  consider  that 
you  had  offered  her  an  insult.  In  France,  on  the  con- 
trary, young  ladies  consider  an  acquaintance  with  arith- 
ffietic  and  accounts  to  be  an  essential  part  of  their 
education.  Here  the  wife  of  one  of  the  better  class  of 
shopkeepers,  would  first  scream,  and  then  faint  away, 
were  the  '^  horrid  ledger  "  to  be  aoeidentally  discovered 
en  the  table  of  her  drawing-room ;  and  she  would  sink 
fifty  per  cent,  in  her  own  estimation  were  she  to 
put  pen  to  paper  in  connexion,  in  any  way,  with 
the  iJfairs  of  the  shop.  The  French  wife,  on  the  con- 
trary, ftels  a  peculiar  delight  in  superintending,  and 
also  oendncting  with  her  own  hands,  the  business  of  her 
bubaad.  See  feels  that  she  is  in  her  proper  sphere 
when  behind  the  counter,  and  that  she  is  a  really  use- 
ful laemher  of  society  when  making  out  accounts,  writing 
letters,  fiving  instructions  to  assistants,  or  executing  the 
enlers  of  her  enstomers. 

AH  very  well  this  for  the  women  ;  but  what 
becomes  of  the  men? — ^what  is  the  use  of  them,  now 
that  the  Emperor  and  his  glorious  wars  have  given 
way  to  Louis  Philippe  and  peace  ? 

Host  admirably  do  the  Parisian  wives  manage  their 
hoshands'  business.  Certain  it  is  that  the  business 
would  not  be  half  so  well  conducted  by  the  husbands 
themselree.  The  care,  the  knowledge,  indeed  the  busi- 
ness habits  generally,  which  the  wives  exhibit  in  all 
natters  appertaining  to  the  shop,  cannot  be  sufficiently 
admired.  It  is  to  this  care  and  judgment  on  the  part  of 
their  wives,  that  the  fact  is  in  a 'great  measure  to  be 
ascribed,  of  there  being  so  few  Ikilures  among  the  shop- 
keet>eTB  of  Paris. 

The  result,  I  ought  to  add,  of  this  admitted  supe- 
riority of  females  to  males,  in- all  that  relates  to  matters 
of  business,  has  been  to  induce  shopkeepers,  who  require 
more  aaeistanee  than  their  wives  are  able  to  afford, — to 
five  a  preference  to  young  females  over  young  men. 
Hence  the  very  few  young  men,  comparatively,  who  are 
to  be  seen  in  Parisian  shops  of  any  kind.  As  mere 
elerks,  or  accountants,  young  girls  are  beginning  to  be 
preferred  to  young  men  in  publio  establishments,  where 
no  goods  are  sold  nor  orders  given  or  received.  I  could 
meation  one  of  the  leading  banking  establishments  in 
Paris,  in  which  two  daughters,  one  aged  eighteen,  and 
the  other  twenty,  of  one  of  the  principal  partners,  are 
daily  to  be  seen  at  the  desk  from  the  beginning  to  the 
close  of  business  hours.  What  would  a  banker's  daugh- 
ter in  London  think  were  she  to  be  compelled  daily  to  sit 
from  ten  till  five  in  the  banking-house,  with  the  day-book 
or  ledger  before  her !  She  would  just  as  soon  submit  to 
be  placed  in  the  pillory. 

And  in  many  more  establishments,  where  there  is  no- 
thing but  writing  to  do,  young  women  will  soon  be 
taken  in  at  fixed  salaries  in  the  room  of  young  men. 
Kiperience  proves  them  to  be  more  steady,  more  careful, 
•ore  assiduous  in  their  application  to  the  duties  which 
deTolre  npon  them,  than  young  persons  of  our  sex.  Of 
late,  indeed,  a  considerable  number  of  young  women  have 
been  employed  in  several  Government  offices  as  regu- 
larly salaried  olerks. 

All  this  must  rejoice  Mrs.  Hugo  Reid. 

Superiority  is  justly  ascribed  to  the  French  in 
temperance,  and  in  the  prudent  regulation  of  their 
pecuniary  affairs.     They  have  a  rooted  and  whole- 


some dislike  of  debt,  vfiih  its  attendant  mean- 
nesses and  miseries.  Mr.  Grant  goes  more  minutely 
into  certain  delicate  branches  of  statistics  than  Mr* 
Henry  Bulwer,  and  elicits  oonesponding  marvda : 
marvels  to  us  islanders.  He  is  truly  great  upon 
the  ffruetteSy  but  magnificent  upon  the  tMei  tthotey 
where,  however,  people  first  eat  soup,  and  then 
fish,  much  as  they  do  at  home.  He  tried  a  good 
many  of  the  dlning-houses,  and  made  a  grand  dis* 
CO  very. 

The  greatest  error  which  an  Englishman  oommitS| 
when  making  a  selection  of  articles  for  his  dinner,  is,  in 
supposing  that  the  potatoes  form  an  appendage  to,  or 
part  of  the  dish  with  which  they  may  be  ordered.  On 
the  contrary,  being  prepared  in  a  peculiar  way,  they 
rank  as  a  dish  of  themselves.  .  Ladies 

are  in  the  habit  of  dining  at  these  places  as  well  as  gen- 
tlemen. You  often  see  some  of  the  finest  and  most  ele- 
gantly dressed  women  in  Paris  sitting  down  to  dinner, 
and  giving  their  orders,  with  as  much  composure  as  if 
they  were  at  home,  in  the  presence  of  fifty,  sixtyi 
eighty,  and  often  as  many  as  a  hundred  gentlemen. 
Sometimes  they  are  accompanied  by  their  husbands — 
for  they  are  all  married ;  sometimes  by  some  friend  of 
our  sex  ;  and  often  by  nobody  at  all.  They  not  only, 
with  the  utmost  self-possession,  take  off  and  lay  aside 
their  bonnets  when  they  sit  down,  but  when  they  have 
dined,  they  put  them  on  again,  and  adjust,  in  the  pre- 
sence of  scores  of  gentlemen,  their  dresses  at  one  of  the 
mirrors  in  the  place,  with  as  much  nonchalance  as  if  they 
were  in  their  own  dressing-rooms  at  home. 

A  very  large  amount  of  business  is  done  in  many  of 
these  Parisian  dining-rooms.  In  a  very  celebrated  one, 
up  three  pair  of  stairs,  in  the  Palais  Royal,  where  the 
charge  is  two  francs,  the  average  number  who  daily  dine 
is  350.  I  myself  have  seen  as  many  as  140  persons  din- 
ing in  it  at  once.  Three  hundred  and  fifty  persons,  at 
two  francs  each,  give  700  francs,  or  about  £50  of  our 
money, — a  large  sum  to  receive  in  a  few  hours  for  din- 
ners. There  is  another  house  in  the  neighbourhood  of 
the  Palais  Royal,  where  the  charge  for  dinner  is  a  frano 
and  a  half,  at  which  not  fewer  than  from  700  to  800  per- 
sons dine  every  day. 

In  the  dining-rooms  of  Paris,  you  never  meet  with  a 
newspaper.  Fond  as  the  Parisians  are  of  their  journals, 
they  give  a  decided  preference  to  their  dinners. 

These  are  among  the  important  things  which  al- 
most every  traveller,  save  Mr.  Grant,  would  probably 
have  overlooked.  Mr.  Grant  was  shocked  to  see 
ladies  walking  much  at  their  ease  among  the 
statues  at  the  Louvre ;  and  though,  in  other  casesy 
he  restricts  himself  to  merely  recording  facts,  he 
here  gives  an  opinion : — 

I  am  convinced  that  the  inferiority  of  the  French 
ladies  to  the  ladies  of  England  In  the  attribute  of  mo- 
desty, is  as  much  to  be  ascribed  to  the  prevalence  among 
them  of  paintings  and  statues  without  any  drapery,  as 
to  the  improper  character  of  their  modem  works  of  fic- 
tion. 

^  Queen ! — Queen 's  coming ;  put  an  apron  round  him." 
How  Mr.  Grant  found  a  way,  or  made  one  into 
the  chamber  of  M.  Jules  Janin,  he  does  not  explain ; 
but  since  our  countryman  has  intruded,  we  may 
as  well  profit  by  his  peep : — 

Though  a  severe  critic,  and  a  capricious  man,  I  do  not 
think  there  is  anything  constitutionally  nnkind  about 
him.  I  met  with  him  in  Paris,  and  liked  his  manner 
exceedingly.  He  is  in  private  what  he  appears  in  all 
his  writings — a  lively,  pleasant,  light-hearted  man,  with 
a  great  fiow  of  animal  spirits,  and  having  all  the  appear- 
ance of  one  who  is  utterly  indifferent  as  to  what  people 
think  or  say  of  him.  When  the  servant  ushered  me  into 
his  room,  I  found  him  engaged  in  an  active  search 
through  his  library  for  a  book,  and  humming  a  song  to 
i  himself,]  evidently  to  his  very  great  delectation.    He 


48 


GRANT'S  PARIS  AND  ITS  PEOPLE. 


resides  in  aparimenta  in  a  honse  nearly  opposite  the 
entrance  to  the  Luxembonig  Gardens.  The  house,  like 
most  houses  in  Paris,  is  very  high,  and  Jules  Janin  lives 
nearly  at  the  top.  I  was  quite  out  of  breath  before 
reaching  the  apartments  of  the  critic 

Literary  men,  in  Paris,  are  rather  proTerbial  for  gir- 
ing  a  preference  to  apartments  near  the  top  of  the  house. 
And  Jules  Janin  rejoices,  I  am  told,  in  the  Ikct  of  his 
rooms  being  on  the  fourth  or  fifth  storey, — I  do  not  re- 
member which.  The  walls  of  the  apartment  in  which  I 
found  him,  were  nearly  all  eoTcred  with  tapestry  of  the 
most  beautiful  kind,  after  the  manner  of  the  Cartoons  of 
Raphael.  Some  of  these  Cartoons  are,  I  have  no  doubt, 
of  great  ralue,  though  my  knowledge  of  the  Fine  Arts  is 
not  Bufficiently  great  to  enable  me  to  speak  in  positive 
terms  on  the  subject. 

The  personal  appearance  of  Jules  Janin  is  very  re- 
markable. Those  who  hare  seen  him  once  will  never 
forget  him.  He  is  rather,  if  anything,  below  the  middle 
height,  and  very  stoutly  and  compactly  made.  His 
complexion  is  exceedingly  dark, — quite  as  much  so  as 
that  of  the  generality  of  Italians.  His  face  is  unusually 
full ;  and  its  expression,  on  the  whole,  is  pleasing.  He 
has  a  singularly-fine  forehead,  which  attracts  attention 
the  more  readily,  on  account  of  the  large  quantity  of  jet- 
black  hair,  either  brushed  up,  or  naturally  disposed  to 
stand  erect,  with  which  it  is  surmounted.  I  have  rarely 
seen  a  more  quick  or  piercing  eye.  It  is  fhll  of  fire  and 
intelligence.  A  patch  of  hair,  which  is  never  allowed  to 
attain  a  greater  growth  than  about  a  quarter  of  an  inch, 
is  always  to  be  seen  on  the  lower  part  of  his  chin.  What 
may  be  the  technical  term,  if  there  be  one,  for  this  frag- 
ment of  a  beard,  I  do  not  know.  It  is  much  larger  thui 
the  tufts,  or  imperials,  which  we  sometimes  meet  with 


in  this  country.  I  refer  to  it  particularly,  because  I  do 
not  remember  to  have  seen  anything  like  it  in  Paris,  and 
because  it  imparts  a  very  peculiar  expression  to  the 
critic's  countenance.  The  appearance  of  Jules  Jauiu 
forcibly  reminded  me  of  that  of  Sir  Charles  Napier,  the 
hero  of  St.y  ean  d' Acre,— only  that  Jules  Janin  is  much  the 
better-formed  man  of  the  two,  and  possesses  much  more 
regular  features.  His  age,  judgiug  from  appearance,  I 
should  suppose  to  be  about  forty-five  ;  but  he  may  be  a 
year  or  two  older  or  younger.  Though  he  reviews  iSiglish 
books,  which  have  never  been  translated  into  French,  and 
cuts  them  up  without  mercy,  he  cannot  talk  nor  read  [!] 
a  word  of  English.  He  deeply  regrets  that  he  did  not 
make  himself  acquainted  with  our  language  in  early  life. 
And  as  I  was  in  pretty  much  the  same  predicament  in 
reference  to  French,  we  should  have  looked  very  awk- 
ward when  together,  but  for  the  presence  of  a  third  party 
who  is  acquainted  with  both  languages. 

This  must  have  been  the  interpreter  whom  Mr. 
Grant  hired  to  attend  him. 

Mr.  Grant  cloeee  with  awfol  solemnity.  He 
ayen  that  he  is  no  alarmist,  but  some  terrible  mis- 
chief is  brewing.  What  will  he  say  to  the  visit 
of  the  Duke  of  Bourdeaux  ?     He  concludes  :— 

After  what  I  saw  and  heard  in  France,  I  could  not 
close  this  work,  with  any  satisfaction  to  my  own  mind, 
without  raising  my  warning  voice  to  the  Protestant  pub- 
lic of  this  country.  My  firm  conviction  is,  that  we  are 
on  the  eve  of  the  accomplishment  of  those  predictions  in 
both  the  Old  and  New  Testaments,  which  refer  to  the 
deadly  struggle  between  the  Protestant  and  the  Papal 
principles,  which  is  to  precede  the  ushering  in  of  the  Mil- 
lennium. 


ENGLAND  AND  FRANCE. 

BT  WBUA.  GORE. 


Now,  out 'on  Cressy  and  Poitiers  ! 

Those  names  portray  to  me 
The  dawning  greatness  of  a  land, 

My  country's  enemy ! 
'Twas  ftom  those  fatal  battle-fields 

The  power  of  France  arose  ; 
'Twas  there  she  learned  the  mystery 

Of  conquering  her  foes  1 

Low  lay  her  gallant  nobles,  slain, — 

Her  flower  of  chivalry^ — 
When  Somme's  red  banks  reechoed  hoarse 

*<  St.  George  and  Victory  1" 
While  Yalois,  from  his  tottering  throne, 

Ezolaimed,  in  wild  despair — 
**  Dead  are  the  guardiaus  of  my  crown, — 

Where  are  my  people  I — where  ?" 

**  Thou  hast  fio  people  !** — said  a  voice 
Deep  in  the  monarch's  breast ; 

"  Shall  slavish  serfs  and  vassals  vile 
Set  knightly  lance  in  rest  1 


What  pride  or  portion  in  the  land 

Have  abject  things  like  they 
Who  breathe  a  bondsman's  baited  breath. 

And  curse  while  they  obey  t 

**  Gire  them  their  Freedomi— oheer  them  on 

Unto  the  land's  defence  ; 
And  lo  ! — a  nation's  loyal  love 

Shall  soour  these  English  hence  ! " 
So  said^ — 80  done  !    From  Valois'  fiefs,  * 

Such  shouts  of  triumph  rose. 
That  Edward  in  those  new-bom  men 

Scarce  recognised  his  foes  I 

A  giant  strength  possess'd  the  limbs 

Fresh  franchis'd  from  their  chain  ; 
And  that  spontaneous  fellowship 

Was  ne'er  dissolv'd  again  ! 
In  concentration  stem  and  strong 

A  people's  might  appears  : 
And  this  is  all  that  England  gatn'd 

By  Cressy  and  Poitiers  ! 


*  The  act  for  ih«  enfranchiiement  of  the  serfs  of  the  royal  lands  of  Valoi*.  about  the  middle  of  the  14th  centuiy,  ezpreMes 
the  eoncession  to  be  made  **  fxttendu  que  totUe  enatturt  humame,  qui  etl/ormte  d  Vinuiye  de  Noit-e  Seigneur^  doU  itrefrandc 
}tar  /o»  naturelie^^  &c.  &c. 


49 


MY  WIFFS  ALBUM. 


BT  BON  OAULTIBR. 


I  HATE  been  in  a  foors  paradise  for  the  last  week. 
My  back  is  still  smarting  from  the  stroke  of  the 
old  shoe  which  followed  me  into  the  carriage  that 
bore  me,  with  the  young  partner  of  my  heart,  from 
a  weeping  circle  of  friends,  and  the  paternal  resi- 
dence in Place.    The  honeymoon  has  not  had 

time  to  show  the  least  tendency  to  horns ;  and  the 
vow  which  I  swore  to  my  lovely  Julia  between 
Hangingshaw  and  Torsonce,  to  forswear  whisky- 
toddy  and  cheroots,  remains  unbroken.  My  health 
has  been  visibly  declining  in  consequence  ;  but  one 
glance  in  Julia's  eyes,  and  the  memories  of  Manilla 
fade  like  a  curl  of  its  own  smoke  in  the  morning 
air ;  and  Islay*  and  Glenlivat  are  abandoned  with- 
out a  sigh. 

Dear  soul !'  what  days  have  these  not  been  ?  It 
is  tne,  she  would  insist  upon  my  going  out  the 
other  nighty  in  the  moonlight,  to  see  the  ruins  of 
the  abbey  at  Melrose,  where  we  have  been  doing 
the  pastoral  since  the  happy  day ;  a  little  freak  of 
poedcal  perverseness,  which  has  cost  me  a  rheuma- 
tism. It  is  true,  that  I  have  not  heard  one  bit  of 
newB  or  scandal  for  a  week  ;  and  thoughts  of  the 
club  have  come  over  me  now  and  then.  But,  upon 
the  whole,  I  should  say,  if  I  might  be  allowed  a 
little  poetical  license,  that  since  ^^holy  church  in- 
coipoiated  us  two  in  one," 

We  on  honey  dew  have  fed, 
And  drunk  the  milk  of  paradise  ; 
but  as  all  that  is  between  the  ^^  conscious  moon  *' 
and  ourselves,  the  less  that  is  said  about  it  the 
better. 

Wiiat  extremity  will  not  a  man  suffer  for  love  ? 
Here  am  I  actually  at  this  moment  with  my  wife's 
Album  before  me,  and  under  a  solemn  engagement 
to  contribute  to  its  stores ;  I,  who  have  through 
life  shunned  an  Album  as  I  would  a  leprosy,  and 
lost  the  favour  of  many  charming  Bellamiras  of 
my  acquaintance,  by  refusing  to  add  an  acrostic  or 
love-sonnet  to  the  pile  of  such  rubbish  which  young 
ladies  wUl  take  so  much  pains  in  compiling  for  the 
amusement  of  their  evening  parties.  Well,  I  see 
there  is  no  escaping.  Julia,  ostensibly  deep  in  the 
second  volume  of  TAe  President sDaughters^  is  steal- 
ing sly  glances  at  me  over  the  top  of  the  page,  de- 
light^ to  see  my  pen  already  flying  over  the  paper. 
I«t  me  dip  into  the  portfolio  of  my  memory,  and 
perhaps  some  flying  leaves  may  turn  up  to  help  me 
ia  my  strait.  My  pen,  like  Anacreon  s  lyre,  runs, 
«s  natorally  it  should,  to  **  Love,  still  love ; "  and 
I  wander  back  to  the  days  when  I  first  took  my 
degrees  in  classics  and  general  literature,  beer  and 
tobacco-pj^pes,  at  the  university  of  Jena.  I  was 
sitting—^;  but  I  shall  tell  my  tale  ingoodUhlan- 
dic  meaaore.    Thus  did  it  befall 

THE  STUDENT  OF  JENA. 
Once — 'twas  when  I  lived  at  Jena — 

At  a  Wirihshaus'  door  I  sate. 
And  in  pensive  oontemplation 
Eat  the  sansage  thick  and  fat; 

VOL.  XIw— IfO.  ouci. 


Eat  the  krant,  that  never  sourer 

Tasted  to  my  lips  than  here; 
Smoked  my  pipe  of  strong  canaster, 

Sipp'd  my  fifteenth  jug  of  beer  : 
Gazed  upon  the  glancing  river. 

Gazed  upon  the  tranquil  pool. 
Whence  the  silver-voiced  Undine, 

When  the  nights  were  calm  and  cool. 
As  the  Baron  Fouqu^  telUi  us, 

Rose  from  out  her  shelly  grot, 
Casting  glamour  o'er  the  waters, 

Witching  that  enchanted  spot. 
From  the  shadow  which  the  coppice 

Flings  across  the  rippling  stream. 
Did  I  hear  a  sound  of  music — 

Was  it  thought  or  was  it  dream ! 
There,  beside  a  pile  of  linen, 

Stretch'd  along  the  daisied  sward. 
Stood  a  young  and  blooming  maiden — 

'Twas  her  thrush-like  song  I  heard. 
Evermore  within  the  eddy 

Did  she  plunge  the  white  chemise. 
And  her  robes  were  loosely  gather'd 

Rather  far  above  her  knees; 
Then  my  breath  at  once  forsook  me; 

For  too  surely  did  I  deem 
That  I  saw  the  fair  Undine, 

Standing  in  the  glancing  stream; 
And  I  felt  the  charm  of  knighthood; 

And  from  that  remember'd  day. 
Every  evening  to  the  Wirthshaus 

Took  I  my  enchanted  way. 
Shortly  to  relate  my  story. 

Many  a  week  of  summer  long, 
Came  I  there,  when  beer-o'ertaken, 

With  my  lute  and  with  my  song; 
Sang,  in  mellow-toned  soprano. 

All  my  love  and  all  my  woe. 
Till  the  river-maiden  answered. 

Lilting  in  the  stream  below : — 
**  Fair  Undine  !  sweet  Undine  ! 

Dost  thou  love  as  I  love  thee  1" 
"  Love  is  free  as  running  water," 

Was  the  answer  made  to  me. 
Thus,  in  interchange  seraphic. 

Did  I  woo  my  phantom  fay. 
Till  the  nights  grew  long  and  chilly. 

Short  and  shorter  grew  the  day; 
Till  at  last — 'twas  dark  and  gloomy, 

Dull  and  starless  was  the  sky, 
And  my  steps  were  all  unsteady, 

For  a  little  flush'd  was  I— 
To  the  well-accustom'd  signal 

No  response  the  maiden  gave; 
But  I  heard  the  waters  washing, 

And  the  moaning  of  the  wave., 
Vanish'd  was  my  own  Undine; 

All  her  linen,  too,  was  gone; 
And  I  walk'd  i^nt,  lamenting. 

On  the  river  bank  alone. 
Idiot  that  I  was,  for  never 

Had  I  ask'd  the  maiden's  name. 
Was  it  Lieschen !  was  it  Gretchen  I 

Had  she  tin  I  or  whence  she  came  ! 
So  I  took  my  trusty  meerschaum. 

And, I  took  my  lute  likewise; 
Wander'd  forth,  in  minstrel  fashion, 

Underneath  the  lowering  skies; 
Sang  before  each  comely  Wirthshaus, 

Sang,  beside  each  purling  stream, 
That  same  ditty  that  I  chauted 

Wbf  n  U{)di(io  was  my  theme  : 


50 


MY  WIFE'S  ALBUM. 


Singing,  as  I  sang  at  Jena, 

When  the  shifts  were  hung  to  dry^ 
"  Fair  Undine  I  young  Undine, 

Dost  thou  love  as  well  as  I !'' 
But  alas  !  in  field  or  Tillage 
Or  beside  the  pebbly  shore 
Bid  I  see  those  glancing  ankles, 

And  the  white  robe  never  mon^— • 
And  no  answer  came  to  greet  meg 
No  sweet  Toice  to  mine  replied^ 
But  I  heard  the  waters  rippling. 
And  the  moaning  of  the  tide. 
Thus  was  I  first  inoculated  with  the  sweet 
poison  of  love.    I  had  foolish  notions  of  constancy 
in  those  days — clung  to  the  memory  of  that  fair 
hlanehisseuse,  as  a  devotee  would  to  a  relic  of  some 
saint  *^  niched  in  cathedral  aisle,"  and  believed  I 
should  die  a  martyr  to  that  exhibition  of  the 
washing-tub,  in  which,  to  my  ardent  fancy,  she 
seemed  like  the  immortal  **  Venus  from  the  Bath*' 
of  Canova.     I  of  course  got  over  all  that  nonsense 
in  due  season ;  but  in  the  faith  in  which  I  then 
was,  I  remember  being  much  struck  with  the 
story  of  one  of  my  fellow  biirschen,  who  died  a 
martyr  to  an  unhappy  attachment  to  a  vintner's 
daughter  and  to  liquor.     I  chronicled  his  story  in 
immortal  verse  at  the  time  ;  and  as  it  bore  some 
analogy  to  that  of  Schiller's  Ritter  Toggenburg,  I 
had  no  scruples  in  adopting  the  metre  of  tliat  well- 
known  poem.    It  ran  somewhat  in  this  faahion  :— 
BURSCH  GROGOENBURO. 
^  Bursch  1  if  foaming  beer  oontent  yoj 

Come  and  drink  yoor  fill ; 
In  our  cellars  there  is  plenty, 

Himmel !  hew  yoa  swill ! 
That  the  liquor  hath  aUoiMee, 

Well  I  midentaad; 
But  'tis  really  pMk  endwanee 

When  yeu  eqaeese  my  hand !  ** 
And  he  heard  her  as  if  dreaming, 

Heard  her  half  in  awe ; 
And  the  meerschaum's  smoke  came  Streaming 

From  his  open  jaw  : 
For  his  pulse  beat  somewhat  quicker 

Than  it  did  befbre. 
And  he  finish'd  olt  hu  liquor, 

Stagger*d  through  the  door; 
Bolted  off  direct  to  Munich, 

And  within  the  year 
Underneath  his  German  tunlo 
Stowed  whole  butts  of  beer. 
And  he  drank  like  fifty  fishes^ 

Drank  till  all  was  blue — 
For  he  fblt  extremely  vicious ; 

Somewhat  thirsty  too. 
But  at  length  this  dire  deboshinc 

Drew  towards  an  end ; 
Few  of  all  his  silber-groschea 

Had  he  left  to  spend. 
And  he  knew  it  was  not  prudent 

Longer  to  remain, 
So  with  weary  feet  the  student 

Wended  home  again. 
At  the  tavern's  well-known  portal. 

Knocks  he  as  before. 
And  a  waiter  rather  mertal. 
Hiccups  through  the  door. 
'^  Master's  sleeping  in  the  kitehen ; 

You'U  alarm  the  house  ; 
Yesterday  the  Jnngfer  Fritohes 

Married  baker  Kraos  !" 
Like  a  fiery  comet  bristling, 

Rose  the  young  man's  hair, 
And,  poor  soul  !  he  fell  a-whistling. 
Out  of  sheer  despair. 


Down  the  gloomy  street  in  silence 

Savage-calm  he  goes; 
But  he  did  no  deed  of  violence. 

Only  blew  his  nose. 
Then  he  hired  an  airy  garret, 

Near  her  dwelling-place. 
Grew  a  beard  of  fiercest  carrot. 

Never  washed  his  faoe ; 
Sate  all  day  beside  the  easemeatf 

Sate  a  dreary  man; 
Found  in  smoking  such  an  easement 

As  the  wretched  can ; 
Stared  for  hours  and  hours  together, 

Stared  yet  more  and  more. 
Till  in  fine  and  eanny  weatiier, 

At  the  baker's  door, 
Stood  in  apron  white  and  mealy» 

That  beloved  dame. 
Counting  out  the  loaves  so  freely. 

Selling  of  the  same. 

Then  like  a  volcano  puffing, 

Smoked  he  out  his  pipe; 
For  his  supper  took  he  ''nulBn/' 

Only  kraut  and  tripe ; 
Went  to  bed,  and  in  the  morning, 

Waited  as  before. 
Still  his  eyes  in  anguish  taming 

To  the  baker's  door; 

Til!,  with  apron  white  and  mealy, 

Game  the  lovely  dame. 
Counting  out  the  loaves  ao  ireelf  i 

Selling  of  the  same. 
So  one  day, — the  fact 's  amazing — ' 

On  his  post  he  died. 
And  they  found  the  body  ganng 

At  the  baker's  bride. 

I  see  a  number  of  sensitive  young  gentlemen 
turning  away  at  the  frequent  mention  of  the  sacri- 
fices of  Young  Groggenbnrg  to  the  Beer-King.  I 
ovm  the  ideas  suggested  by  the  practice  are  not  so 
poetical,  according  to  the  received  notions,  as  if  I 
had  idealized  the  more  vulgar  liquor  into  wine, 
and  subdued  the  rosy  tints  of  the  grape  into  the 
delicate  «  purt^le  light  of  love."  But  I  hold  It  to 
be  above  all  things  essential  to  poetry  that  it  shall 
be  true  to  nature  ;  and  here  the  reader  must  remem- 
ber that  it  is  German  nature  that  we  are  dealing 
with ;  and  to  me  there  is  something  inexpressibly 
touching  in  Groggenburg's  **  fixed  idea  "  of  the 
fiair  Gretchen  settling  down  in  the  vortex  of  de- 
spair and  Bavarian  Brown,  while  the  eddying 
volumes  of  canaster  smoke  mantled  above  his  head 
like  the  clouds  of  a  ravaging  volcano. 

I  have  said  that  it  is  an  essential  of  poetry  that 
it  shall  be  true  to  nature.  We  are  too  apt  to 
linger  in  the  notion  that  certain  emotions,  generally 
regarded  as  the  more  purely  poetical,  should  always 
clothe  themselves  in  a  certain  form  of  words,  and 
to  apply  the  rule  of  an  advanced  civilisation  to  the 
untutored  expressions  of  a  less  cultivated  race. 
Jewels  and  flowers,  the  attributes  of  grace  and 
brilliancy,  the  brightness  of  the  sky,  and  all  that 
is  most  rare  in  fragrance,  are  what  we  are  in  the 
habit  of  coupling  with  the  name  of  her  whom  vre 
admire.  But  this  species  of  appeal,  it  is  plain, 
would  have  no  effect  with  an  Esquinmnx  beauty. 
The  Hottentot  Venus  would  turn  up  the  rings  of 
her  nose  at  it.  What  the  Australian  or  New 
Zealand  fair  one  might  say,  if  told  that 

^  Her  cheek  was  like  the  cocoa  nut, 
Her  voice,  the  parroqucet'a," 


MY  WIFE'S  ALBUM. 


St 


I  re&U/  cannot  say ;  but  it  is  very  plain  that 
the  way  to  compliment  either  of  these  ladles  upon 
her  head-dress  would  be,  not  to  talk  of  **  pearlins 
or  silken  twine/'  but  of  scalp-locks  and  bears' 
claws.  I  shall  illustrate  my  position  by  some 
rerses  which  recently  reached  me  from  Australia. 
They  were  sent  me  by  a  young  man  who  left  his 
D&tive  city  of  Glasgow,  some  ten  years  ago,  after 
a  protracted  interview,  conducted  with  the  greatest 
propriety  on  both  sides,  with  the  Lord  Justice- 
clerk  of  the  period,  in  presence  of  several  of  the 
junior  members  of  the  bar,  who  happened  to  be 
on  circuit  at  the  time.  He  went  out  in  one  of  her 
Majesty's  vessels,  on  a  permanent  engagement  by 
goremment  for  seven  years.  It  was  part  of  his 
daty  to  see  to  the  repair  of  the  roads  in  the  colony ; 
and  he  was  thus  thrown  much  into  the  society  of 
a  literary  gentleman  from  London,  who  had  seen 
a  good  deal  of  life  in  the  colony,  and  who  happen- 
ed to  be  under  a  similar  engagement.  For  days 
on  days,  as  he  wrote  me,  they  used  to  ait  side  by 
ade,  amusing  themselves  with  geological  hammers 
nponthe  whinstone  of  Australia,  linked  together, 
not  so  mnch,  perhaps,  by  the  ties  of  frienddbip,  as 
bj  a  cham  of  some  four  hundred-weight,  which 
vas  the  symbol  of  their  government  appointment. 
It  was  in  this  aituation  that  my  young  friend 
heard  from  the  lips  of  his  companioii  this  following 
erotic  appeal,  which  may  be  called 

THE  CONVICT  AND  THE  AUSTRALIAN  LADY. 

Thj  akin  is  dark  as  jet,  ladye. 

Thy  cheek  is  sharp  ajid  high. 
And  there  's  a  cruel  leer,  loTe, 

Within  thy  rolling  eye ! 
These  tangled  ebon  tresees 

No  oomb  haAh  e'er  gone  ihroQgb» 
And  thy  forehead,  it  is  fiirrow'd  by 

The  elegant  tatoo ! 

I  love  thee,— oh,  I  love  theei 

Thon  straogely-feedlng  maid — 
Nay,  lift  not  thus  thy  boomerang, 

I  meant  not  to  upbraid ! 
Come,  let  me  taste  these  yellow  lips, 

That  ne'er  wtte  tasted  yet, 
Save  when  the  Bhipwrecked  mariner 

Passed  throu£^  them  for  a  whet. 

Nay,  squeeze  me  not  so  tightly ! 

For  I  am  gaunt  and  th&. 
There  *s  little  flesh  to  tempt  thee 

Beneath  a  convict's  skin. 
I  came  not  to  be  eaten, 

I  sovght  thee,  love,  to  woo ; 
Besides,  bethink  thee,  dearest. 

You've  dined  on  cockatoo  I 

Tby  fklher  is  a  chieftain. 

Why,  that 's  the  very  thing ! 
Within  my  natiTe  country 

I  too  haye  been  a  king. 
Behold  this  branded  letter, 

Whidi  asthing  can  e&ee. 
It  is  the  royal  emblem. 

The  t<^on  of  my  race ! 

Bat  rebels  rese  against  me. 

And  dared  my  power  disown — 
You  've  heard,  love,  of  the  Judges  1 

They  drove  me  from  my  throne. 
And  I  have  wander'd  hither. 

And  crossed  the  stormy  sea. 
In  March  of  glorious  freedom. 

Id  search,  my  sweet,  of  thee ! 


The  bush  is  now  my  empire, 

The  knife  my  sceptre  keen ; 
Come  with  me  to  the  desert  wild, 

And  be  my  dusky  queen ! 
I  cannot  give  thee  jewels, 

I  have  nor  sheep,  nor  cow, 
Yet  there  are  kangaroos,  love^ 

And  colonists  enow  1 

We  11  meet  the  unwary  settler. 

As  whistling  home  he  goes. 
And  1 11  take  tribute  from  him, 

His  money  and  his  clothes. 
Then  on  his  bleeding  carcass 

Thou 'It  lay  thy  pretty  paw, 
And  lunch  npon  him,  roasted. 

Or,  if  yoQ  like  it,  raw  i 

Then  come  with  me,  my  princess. 

My  own  Australian  dear ! 
Within  this  grove  of  gum  trees 

We'll  hold  our  bridal  cheer. 
Thy  heart  with  love  is  beating, 

I  feel  it  through  thy  side, 
Hurrah  I  then,  for  the  noble  pair. 

The  convict  and  his  bride  ! 

A  singular  strain,  certainly ;  but,  doubtless,  it 
was  as  fatal  in  its  way  as  any  of  Moore's  Melodies 
to  a  young  lady  fresh  from  Lara  and  a  boarding- 
school.  The  only  startling  point  about  it  is,  that 
a  European  should  be  the  suitor ;  but  when  gen- 
tlemen take  to  the  bush,  they  don't  usually  stand 
upon  trifles.  Love  is  blind  in  any  case.  Aus- 
tralia's cupids  must,  however,  be  beyond  the  cure 
of  the  most  dexterous  oculist.  In  this  case,  the 
poet  may  have  spoken  from  a  prudent  fear  of 
being  eaten  up,  as  the  phrase  goes,  with  kindness ; 
and  tried  to  find  the  way  to  his  dusky  charmer  s 
heart,  to  avoid  a  passage  to  the  less  poetical 
regions  of  her  stomach.  In  fact,, he  must  have 
written  under  the  "<ftVa  necessitas  leti"  as  our 
poor  friend,  the  Honourable  I.  0.  Uwins,  flung 
himself  away  upon  a  bailifTs  daughter  to  escape 
from  the  restraints  and  pungent  odours  of  a 
spunging-house.  Poor  L  O.  Uwins  I  thine  was  a 
woeful  fate,  and  worthy  of  a  minstrel's  hand  of 
greater  nerve  than  ours.  But  you  shall  not  go 
down  to  oblivion,  like  the  heroes  who  lived  before 
Agamemnon,  for  want  of  a  bard,  so  long  as  we 
have  a  note  left  in  our  voice  to  chant 

THE  DOLEFUL  LAY  OF 
THE  HONOURABLE  I.  O.  UWINS. 

Come  and  listen,  lords  and  ladies. 

To  a  woeful  lay  of  mine  ; 
He  whose  tailor's  bill  unpaid  is. 

Let  him  now  his  ear  incline  : 
Let  him  hearken  to  my  story. 

How  the  noblest  of  the  land 
Pined  long  time  in  dreary  duresse, 

'Neath  a  spunging  bailiff's  hand. 

1.0.  Uwins  I  I.  0.  Uwins  I 

Baron's  son  although  thou  be. 
Thou  must  pay  for  thy  misdoini^ 

In  the  country  of  the  free  ! 
None  of  all  thy  sire's  retainers 

To  thy  rescue  now  may  come  ; 
And  there  lie  a  score  detainers 

With  Abednego  the  bum  ! 

Little  recked  he  of  his  prison 

Whilst  the  sun  was  in  the  sky  : 
Only  when  the  moon  was  risen 

Pid  you  hear  the  captive's  cry. 


$^ 


MY  WIFE'S  ALBUM. 


For  till  then  cig&rs  and  claret 
LnU*d  him  in  ohlivion  sweet; 

And  I*d  rather  choose  a  garret. 
For  my  drinking,  than  the  street. 

But  the  moonlight,  pale  and  broken. 

Pained  at  soul  the  Baron's  son ; 
For  he  knew  by  that  soft  token. 

That  the  larking  had  begun  ; 
That  the  stout  and  valiant  Marquis 

Then  was  leading  forth  his  swells. 
Mangling  some  poUceman's  carcass, 

Or  purloining  private  bells. 

So  he  sate  in  grief  and  sorrow. 

Rather  drunk  than  otherwise, 
Till  the  golden  gush  of  morrow 

Dawned  once  more  upon  his  eyes  ; 
Till  the  spunging  bailiff's  daughter. 

Lightly  tapping  at  the  door. 
Brought  his  draught  of  soda-water. 

Brandy-bottomed  as  before. 

**  Sweet  Rebecca  !  has  your  father, 

Think  you,  made  a  deal  of  brass  !  ** 
And  she  answered — **  Sir,  I  rather 

Should  imagine  that  he  has." 
Uwins,  then,  &  whiskers  scratching, 

LeePd  upon  the  maiden's  face  ; 
And  her  hand  with  ardour  catching, 

Folded  her  in  his  embrace. 

"  La,  Sir  1  let  alone — you  fright  me  !" 

Said  the  daughter  of  the  Jew. 
**  Dearest  I  how  these  eyes  delight  me  ! 

Let  me  love  thee,  darling,  do  ! " 
"  Vat  is  dish  t "  the  baiUff  mutter'd, 

Rushing  in  vnth  fhry  wild  ; 
"  Ish  your  muffins  so  veil  butter'd, 

Dat  you  darsh  insult  ma  shild  I " 

"  Honourable  my  intentions, 

Good  Abednego,  I  swear  ! 
And  I  have  some  small  pretensions. 

For  I  am  a  Baron's  heir. 
If  youll  only  dear  my  credit. 

And  advance  a  thou  *  or  so. 
She's  a  peeress— I  have  said  it ! 

Don't  you  twig,  Abednego ! " 

"  Datsh  a  very  different  matter  I " 

Said  the  bailiff  with  a  leer  ; 
^  But  yon  mosht  not  cut  it  Iktter 

Than  ta  slish  vill  stand,  ma  tear ! 
If  you  seeksh  ma  approbation. 

You  mosht  quite  give  up  your  rigsh  ; 
Alsho,  you  mosht  join  our  nation, 

And  renounsh  ta  flesh  of  pigsh." 

Fast  as  one  of  Fagin's  pupils, 

I.  0.  Uwins  did  agree; 
Little  plagued  with  holy  scruples 
^  From  the  starting-post  was  he. 
But  at  times  a  baleftil  vision 

Rose  before  his  trembling  view ; 
For  he  knew  that  circumcision 

Was  expected  from  a  Jew. 

At  a  meeting  of  the  Rabbis, 

Held  about  the  Whitsuntide, 
Was  this  thorough-paced  Barabbas 

Wedded  to  his  Hebrew  bride. 
All  his  former  debts  compounded, 

From  the  spunging-house  he  came  ; 
And  his  father's  feelings  wounded 

With  reflections  on  the  same. 

But  the  sire  his  son  accosted  : 
"  Split  my  wig,  if  any  more, 

Such  a  double-dyed  apostate 
Shall  presume  to  cross  my  door  t 

Not  a  penny-piece  to  save  thee 
From  the  kennel  or  the  spout 


*  The  £uhional>l6  abbreviation  for  a  thousand  pounds. 


Dinner,  John !  the  pig  and  gravy  ! 
Kick  this  dirty  scoundrel  out  I  ** 

Forth  rushed  I.  0.  Uwins,  faster 

Than  all  winking,  much  afraid 
That  the  orders  of  the  master 

Would  be  punctually  obeyed  ; 
Sought  his  club,  and  there  the  sentence 

Of  expulsion  first  he  saw  : 
No  one  dared  to  own  acquaintance 

With  a  bailiff's  son-in-law. 

Uselessly  down  Bond  Street  strutting. 

Did  he  greet  his  friends  of  yore  ; 
Such  a  universal  cutting 

Never  man  received  before. 
Till  at  last  his  pride  revolted : 

Pale,  and  lean,  and  stem,  he  grew  ; 
And  his  wife  Rebecca  bolted 

With  a  missionary  Jew. 

Ye  who  read  this  doleful  ditty, 

Ask  ye  where  is  Uwins  now  1 
Wend  your  way  through  London  city. 

Climb  to  Holbom's  lofty  brow. 
Near  the  sign-post  of  ^  The  Nigger," 

Near  the  oaked-potato  shed, 
You  may  see  a  ghastly  figure 

With  three  hats  upon  his  head. 

When  the  evening  shades  are  dnsky, 

Then  the  phantom  form  draws  near. 
And,  with  accents  low  and  husky, 

Pours  effluvia  in  your  ear : 
Craving  an  immediate  barter 

Of  your  trousers  or  surtout. 
And  you  know  the  Hebrew  moirtyr, 

Once  the  peerless  I.  0.  U. 

It  may  be  bad  taste  in  us,  but  it  certainly  is  our 
opinion,  that  this  lay  is  as  touching  as  any  Uy 
that  ever  dimmed  with  tears  the  eye  of  lady  in 
lordly  bower.  The  hope  of  a  noble  house  rinking, 
by  degrees,  firoVn  the  splendours  of  Bond  Street, 
through  the  spunging-house,  into  the  arms  of 
Abednego's  daughter;  spumed  by  the  elders  of  the 
Sanhedrim^  and  the  men  of  his  club  ;  kicked  out 
by  his  affectionate  patent ;  deserted  by  his  too 
ardent  wife ;  a  pariaii  of  pariahs  ;  a  trafficker  in 
the  refuse  of  Field  Lane  ;  verily  here  is  matter  to 
point  a  moral  and  adorn  a  tale. 

Some  writers  would  shun  such  a  topic  as  too 
vulgar  and  familiar  for  verse.  There  lies  the  mis- 
take. What  Is  poetry  fit  for,  if  not  to  raise  W 
vulgar  and  the  familiar  into  the  sphere  of  the 
beautiful  and  becoming;  to  elevate  our  common 
life, 

*«  And 'with  the  lofty  sanctify  the  low  1 " 

We  all  diminish  our  chances  of  makmg  life  more 
agreeable  by  n6t  keeping  this  in  view.  It  i»  ^^ 
to  be  poetical  on  a  pair  of  bewitching  eyes,  or  a 
sweet  smile,  or  a  gentle  voice.  But  commend  i^ 
to  the  man  whp  can  give  a  poetical  turn  to  a  bw 
debt,  and  who  has  a  stanza  at  command  to  give  a 
relish  to  a  spoiled  dinner.  And  we  are  prepare 
to  die  in  the  service  of  the  lady  who  will  have  a 
quatrain  ready,  along  with  the  mutton,  ^^^.^ 
husband  or  brother  when  they  come  home,  *  *"*" 
both  in  heart  and  limb,"  or  who  cheers  them 
with  the  living  poetry  of  a  cheerful  face  and  plea- 
sant temper.  Carry  out  the  principle  *  little  far- 
ther, and  see  how  pleasantly  it  will  work-  ^"P 
pose  you  want  a  favourite  dish  :  it  is,  poesihvj 
favourite  of  your  wife's  ;  but,  in  place  of  using 
husband's  privilege  of  grumbling,  because  >o 


MY  WlFE^S  ALBUM. 


i^ 


li&ve  not  had  it  for  &  month  or  two,  just  plead  for 
it  ia  the  following  fashion,  and,  depend  upon  it,  on 
the  dinner-table  next  day  will  stand  the  smoking 
answer  to 

THE  HUSBAND'S  PETITION. 

Come  hitlier,  my  heart's  darling. 

Come,  sit  upon  mjlcnee, 
And  listen,  while  I  whisper 

A  boon  I  ask  of  thee. 
Yon  need  not  pnll  my  whiskers 

So  amorously,  my  dove  ; 
Tis  something  quite  apart  from 

The  gentle  cares  of  love. 

I  fbel  a  bitter  eraying — 

A  dark  and  deep  desire, 
That  glows  beneath  my  bosom 

Like  ooals  of  kindled  fire. 
The  passion  of  the  nightingale, 

When  singing  to  the  rose. 
Is  feebler  tlmn  the  agony 

That  murders  my  repose  ! 

Nay,  dearest  I  do  not  doubt  me. 

Though  madly  thus  I  speak — 
I  feel  thy  arms  about  me. 

Thy  tresses  on  my  eheek  : 
I  know  the  sweet  derotion 

That  links  thy  heart  with  mine, — 
1  know  my  soul's  emotion 

Is  doubly  felt  by  thine. 

And  deem  not  that  a  shadow 

Hath  fallen  across  my  lore : 
No,  sweet,  my  Ioto  is  shadowless. 

As  yonder  heaven  aboTO. 
These  little  taper  fingers— 

Ah,  Jane  !  how  white  they  be  I 
Can  well  supply  the  cruel  want 

That  almost  maddens  me. 

Thou  wilt  not  sure  deny  me 

My  first  and  fond  request ; 
I  pray  thee,  by  the  memory 

Of  all  we  cherish  best — 
By  all  the  deep  remembrance 

Of  those  delicious  days, 
When,  hand  in  hand,  we  wander'd 

Along  the  summer  braes ; 

By  all  we  felt,  unspoken. 

When,  'neaih  the  early  moon. 
We  sate  beside  the  rirulet. 

In  the  leafy  month  of  June  ; 
And  by  the  broken  whisper 

That  fell  upon  my  ear, 
More  sweet  than  angel-music, 

When  first  I  woo'd  thee,  dear ! 

By  that  great  tow  that  bound  thee 

For  cTer  to  my  side. 
And  by  the  ring  that  made  thee 

My  darling  and  my  bride  ! 
Thou  will  not  fail  nor  falter. 

But  bend  thee  to  the  task— 

A  BOILKD  BHEBP'S-HBAD  ON  SuNDAY 

Is  all  the  boon  I  ask! 
This  for  the  gentleman !  Now,  let  us  suppose  a 
esse  for  the  exercise  of  the  same  humanizing  spi- 
rit in  the  lady.  Grim  with  dust  and  fatigue. 
Young  Omnium  returns  from  his  counting-house 
in  the  city,  with  the  whirl  of  a  thousand  specula- 
tions spinning  a  sort  of  witches'  dance  through  his 
overtasked  head.  The  theme  is  not  so  i-omantic, 
perhaps,  as  the  return  of  a  baron  from  a  foray,  in 
the  feudal  times.  Scrip  and  Reduced  Consols  will 
not  chime  so  readily  in  a  stanza,  as  mace  and  hau- 
l^rk ;  but  the  one  subject  contains  as  much  of 
the  elements  of  poetry  as  the  other.    Broken  heads 


are  the  harvest  of  the  one  field— but  broken  hearts 
abound  as  plentifully  in  the  modern  warfare. 
But  to  our  poem. 

THB  INVOCATION. 

Brother,  thou  art  yery  weary, 

And  thine  eye  is  sunk  and  dim. 
And  thy  neckcloth's  tie  is  crumpled. 

And  thy  collar  out  of  trim ; 
There  is  dust  upon  thy  Tisage. 

Think  not,  Charles,  I  would  hurt  ye. 
When  I  say  that,  altogether. 

You  appear  extremely  dirty. 

Frown  not,  brother,  now,  but  hie  thee 

To  thy  chamber's  distant  room. 
Drown  the  odours  of  the  ledger 

With  the  layender's  perfume. 
Brush  the  mud  firom  off  thy  trousers. 

O'er  the  china  basin  kneel. 
Lave  thy  brows  in  water  soften'd 

With  the  soap  of  Old  Castile. 

Smooths  the  locks  that  o'er  thy  forehead 

Now  in  loose  disorder  stray. 
Pare  thy  nails,  and  firom  thy  whiskers 

Cut  those  ragged  points  away. 
Let  no  mo^  thy  calculations 

Thy  bewildePd  brain  beset ; 
Life  has  other  cares  than  Cocker's, 

Other  joys  than  tare  and  tret. 

Haste  thee,  for  I  ordered  dinner. 

Waiting  to  the  very  last, 
Twenty  minutes  after  seven. 

And  'tis  now  the  quarter  past. 
'TIS  a  dinner  which  Lucullus 

Would  have  wept  with  joy  to  see. 
Which  might  wake  the  soul  of  Curtis 

From  Death's  drowsy  atrophy. 

There  is  soup  t>f  real  turtle, 

Torbot,  and  the  dainty  sole. 
And  the  mottled  roe  of  lobsters 

Blushes  through  the  butter  bowl. 
There  a  lordly  haunch  of  mutton. 

Tender  as  the  mountain  grass. 
Waits  to  mix  its  ruddy  juices 

With  the  girdling  caper-sauce. 

There  the  stag,  whose  branching  forehead 

Spoke  him  monarch  of  the  herds, 
He  whose  flight  was,  o'er  the  heather. 

Swift  as  through  the  air  the  bird's. 
Yields  for  thee  a  dish  of  cutlets ; 

And  the  haunch  that  wont  to  dash 
Across  the  roaring  mountain  torrent. 

Smokes  in  most  delicious  hash. 

There,  besides,  are  amber  jellies 

Floating  like  a  golden  dream. 
Ginger  firom  the  far  Bermudas, 

Dishes  of  Italian  cream : 
And  a  princely  apple-dumpling, 

Which  my  own  fair  fingers  wrought. 
Shall  unfold  its  nectar'd  treasures 

To  thy  lips,  all  smoking  hot. 

Ha !  I  see  thy  brow  is  clearing, 

Lustre  flashes  firom  thine  eyes ; 
To  thy  lips  I  see  the  moisture 

Of  anticipation  rise. 
Hark  J  the  dinner-bell  is  sounding  ! 

"  Only  wait  one  moment,  Jane : 
I'll  be  ch^ss'd,  and  down,  before  you 

Can  get  up  the  iced  Champagne  ! " 

What  a  zest  such  a  dinner  would  have !  We 
grow  hungry  as  we  write  of  it.  Here  everything 
is  right  and  comfortable.  But  let  us  look  on  an- 
other picture.  The  situation  is  trying,  almost 
tragical, 


54 


MY  WIFE'S  ALBUM. 


THE  MISttAP. 

Why  art  thou  weepiDg,  sister, 

Why  is  thy  cheek  so  pale  1 
Look  up,  dear  Jane,  and  tell  me 

What  is  it  thoa  dost  ail ! 

I  know  thy  will  !■  froward, 

Thy  feelings  warm  and  keeoi 
And  that  Augufltus  Howard 

For  weeks  has  not  heen  seen. 

I  know  how  much  you  lored  him ; 

But  I  know  thou  do9t  not  weep 
For  him ;— for  though  his  passion  waS| 

His  purse  is  noways  deep. 

Then  tell  me  why  thou  weepest ; 

What  means  this  woeAil  mood  t 
Say,  has  the  tax-collector 

Been  calling,  and  been  rude  ! 

Or  has  that  hateful  grocer. 

The  slave  !  been  here  to-day  1 
Of  course  he  had,  by  morrow^s  noon^ 

A  heayy  bill  to  pay ! 

Come,  on  thy  brother*8  bosom 

Unburden  all  thy  woes ; 
Look  up,  look  up,  sweet  sister ; 

There,  dearest ! — blow  your  nose, 

"  Oh,  John,  'tis  not  the  grocer. 

Nor  his  account ;  although 
How  CTer  he  is  to  be  paid, 

I  really  do  not  know. 

*»  'Tis  not  the  tax-collector ; 

Though,  by  his  fell  command, 
They  Ve  poinded  our  paternal  clocks 

Ajid  new  umbrella-stand. 

"  Nor  that  Augustus  Howard^ 

Whom  I  despise  almost. 
But  the  soot  *s  come  down  the  chimney,  John, 

And  fairly  spoiled  the  roast !  ** 

A  catastrophe  more  distressing  than  this,  more 
trying  to  philosophy,  we  are  not  prepared  at  this 
moment  to  call  to  mind ;  but  its  weight  would  fall 
less  heavily,  were  it  reliered  by  a  mode  of  commu- 
nication such  as  we  hare  imagined. 

We  could  find  no  end  to  these  fugitive  domestic 
pieces.  Here  is  a  breakfast  scene  with  which 
most  families^  with  a  son  in  them,  are  familiar : — 
NIGHT  AND  MORNING. 

NOT  BT  SIR  E.  L.  BULWER. 

Thy  coifee,  Tom,  is  untasted, 

And  thy  egg  is  yery  cold ; 
Thy  cheeks  are  wan  and  wasted, 

Not  rosy  as  of  old. 
My  boy,  what  has  come  o'er  ye, 

You  surely  are  not  well ! 
Try  some  of  that  ham  before  ye, 

And  then,  Tom,  ring  the  bell ! 

*'  I  cannot  eat,  my  mother. 

My  tongue  is  parch'd  and  bounds 
And  my  head,  somehow  or  other, 

Is  swimming  round  and  round. 
In  my  eyes  there  is  a  fblness, 

And  my  pulse  is  beating  quick ; 
On  my  brain  is  a  weight  of  dulness ; 

Oh,  mother,  I  am  sick!" 

These  long,  long  nights  of  watching 

Are  killing  you  outright ; 
The  eyening  dews  are  catching. 

And  you're  out  every  night. 
Why  does  that  horrid  grumbler. 

Old  Inkpen,  work  you  so  ? 

Tox,  {Unte  8u$urrant.) 
»*  My  head!  Oh,  that  tenth  tumbler ! 

'Twas  that  which  wrought  my  woe." 


Again,  take  another  incident,  hy  no  means  un- 
common,  despite  of  Father  Mathew.  I  pitch  the 
strain  highly,  with  a  little  of  the  vague  dreanuness 
which  is,  undeniably,  one  of  the  elements  of  the 
sublime ;  because  every  one  knows,  that  under  the 
circumstances  of  the  supposed  hero  of  the  poem, 
an  exaltation  of  language,  and  considerable  hazi- 
ness of  perception,  are  only  what  an  enlightened 
experience  of  human  nature  warrants  us  in  expect- 
ing. 

THE  NIGHT  WATCH- 
Dimmer,  ever  dimmer. 

Bums  the  dying  lamp; 
Shadows  round  me  glimmer, 
Thick  the  air  and  damp. 
Hound  me  there  are  phantom  faces. 
And  a  shadowy  board  is  spread. 
There  are  goblets  in  their  places. 
Wine  is  in  them,  blushing  red. 
What  is  this  I  my  eyes  are  doating. 
Guests  and  table,  gone  are  they ; 
And  upon  the  night-wind  floating, 
Mounts  a  faint  '^  Hip,  hip,hurnh  I** 

Dimmer,  ever  dimmer, 

Bums  the  dying  lamp; 
Shadows  round  me  glimmer, 
Thick  the  air  and  damp. 
Oh,  this  chill !    How  shall  I  ease  me  ? 

Hence,  old  man, — ^hence,  hence  I  avaunt  I 
Thou  art  the  fiend  I  and  come  to  seize  me  I 

I  cannot  go, — indeed,  I  can't  I 
**  Bill,  vot  does  the  gemman  mutter  ! 

He  's  cutting  it  unoonunon  stout. 
Yy,  Sir,  you're  lying  in  the  gutter,  . 
Vith  your  pockets  inside  out  1" 
An  awkward  state  of  matters,  certainly.    The 
gentleman  is  carried  home,  planted  against  liis  own 
door ;  the  bell  is  rung  •  and,  upon  the  door  being 
opened — ^by  his  sorrowing  spouse,  of  course — he 
drops  insensible  at  her  feet.  The  reader  may  laugh ; 
but  it  is  really  no  laughing  matter  to  either  of  the 
parties.    A  terrible  retribution  is  sure  to  overtake 
such  reckless  indulgence :  it  may  be  physical,  or 
it  may  be  mental,  or  both ;  but  come  it  will ;  and 
within  the  week,  as  sure  as  fate,  the  stillness  of 
the  bridal  chamber  will  be  broken  by  some  such 
dialogue  bs  this  : — 

COMFORT  IN  AFFLICTION. 

Wherefore  starts  my  bosom's  lord  t 

Why  this  anguish  in  thine  eye ! 
Oh,  it  seems  as  thy  heart's  cord 

Had  broken  with  that  sigh  I 

Rest  thee,  my  dear  lord,  I  pray, 

Rest  thee  on  my  bosom  now  I 
I  will  wipe  the  dews  away 

Are  gathering  on  thy  brow. 

There,  again  I  that  fever'd  start  I 
What,  loye  !  husband  1  is  thy  pain  f 

There's  a  sorrow  on  thy  heart, 
A  weight  upon  thy  brain  ! 

Nay,  that  sickly  smile  can  ne'er 
Dcceiye  affcction^s  searching  eye, 

*Ti8  a  wife's  duty,  love,  to  share 
Her  husband's  agony. 

Since  the  dawn  began  to  peep, 

Have  I  lain  with  stifled  breath. 
Heard  thee  moaning  in  thy  sleep, 

As  thou  wert  at  grips  with  death. 

Oh,  what  joy  it  was  to  see 
My  gentle  lord  once  more  awake  !^ 

Tell  me,  what  is  amiss  with  thee  t 
Speak,  or  ny  heart  will  break  1 


•  MY  WIFE^  ALBItl^t. 


fi5 


"  Maiy,  angel  of  my  lift. 

Thou  hut  eyennore  been  kind; 
Tis  not,  belieTe  me,  my  dear  wife, 

Th9  anguiah  of  the  mind  I 

"  It  is  not  in  my  bosom,  dear. 

No,  nor  my  brain,  in  sooth; 
But,  Mary,  oh,  I  feel  it  here. 

Here  in  my  wisdom  tooth  I 

"  Then  giro  me,  firat,  best  antidote, 

Sweet  partner  of  my  bed  I 
Giro  me  thy  flannel  pettiooat 

To  wrap  around  my  head  !  *' 

It  is  really  time  to  stop.  Jalia,  we  obaenre,  is 
becoming  impatient  to  see  what  we  have  been 
doing. 

"  Oh,  you  wretch ! "  exoLumed  a  Yery  mttsical 
Toice,  somewhat  shrilly,  as  I  penned  the  last  line ; 
and  I  felt  the  lobe  of  my  left  ear  strongly  com- 


pressed between  a  pair  of  faiiy  but  substantial 
fingers.  I  shut  the  book,  and  rushed  to  my  de- 
fence. Julia  protested  I  had  ruined  her  Album. 
I  Towed  that  I  had  made  its  fortune.  A  cloud 
was  visibly  coming  across  the  honeymoon.  I  pro- 
mised Julia  a  new  Album— 

A  yirgin  page. 
White  and  unwritten  still; 
she  remarking,  that 

Some  hand  more  pure  and  sage 
The  leaf  mnst  fill. 

To  this  I  gladly  consented,  and  forwarded  my 
slighted  lucubrations  to  Mr.  Tait,  leaving  an  im« 
partial  public  to  judge  between  Julia  and  myself 
as  to  my 

Album  Vebsbs. 

Melross,  18^  Ihc€mb0;  1843. 


THE  CORNOPEAN. 
To  th€  Biilor  of  TaU'i  Magazine, 

EDtNBiTHOtr,  \Sth  DeeeniheTf  1845. 

Sib,— In  Mareh  last  yen  were  so  obliging  as  to  insert  in  yonr  valual^le  and  widely-ciroulated  Penodioal  some 
obsantions  of  mine  respecting  the  Cornopean.  Will  you  now  permit  me  to  take  notice  of  an  improvement 
which  hu  been  made  upon  the  Cornopean  by  that  very  clever  Instrument-maker,  Mr.  Glen,  North  Bank  Street  I 
His instrament  is  adflipted  for  the  pocket  i  is  quite  as  small  and  portable  as  Mr.  Shaw's  ''Pocket-bugle  ;"  and 
u  wtek  Utt  li€tbU  to  ejiUmal  injury. 

B7  means  of  three  pistons,  the  chromatic  scale  is  given  through  the  whole  compass  of  the  instrument,  without 
the  Beceadty  of  having  recourse  to  a  dide,  as  m  Shaw's  Bugle.  From  the  construction  of  these  pistons,  (which, 
with  regard  tp  the  spring,  present  a  very  ingenious  modification  of  those  in  common  use,)  the  fingered  notes  are 
capable  of  being  produced  with  greater  rapidity  than  the  revolving  disc  of  Mr.  Shaw  admits  of,  thereby  enabling 
the  performer  to  play  quick  passages  with  more  certainty  and  distinctness.  The  quality  of  tone  is  quite  equal 
to  that  of  Mr.  Shaw's  Bugle.  The  instrument  is  also  provided  with  a  number  of  crooks ;  and  is,  in  short,  a  very 
beaatifol  miniature  Comet-a-Pistons. 

1  write  this  finom  a  wish  to  bring  an  improvement  in  the  instrument  before  those  who  are  interested  in  it ;  and 
also  to  make  generally  known  the  invention  of  an  industrious  and  descrying  townsman.  I  remain.  Sir,  your 
most  obedient, 

A  SCOTTISH  AMATEUR. 


LAYS  OP  A  NEW  ERA. 
THE  CANDIDATES  FOR  IMPERIAL  FAVOUR  BELOW  STAIRS. 


The  monarch  sate  on  his  coal-black  throne : 

On  his  head  was  a  fiery  crown : 
His  eyes  were  a  flame,  and  a  ghastly  light 

Shone  forth  at  his  awful  frown. 
He  snmmon'd  around  him  his  grisly  peers 
That  had  seen  the  lapse  of  a  thousand  years, 
Ere  time  had  measured  his  infant  flight 
Around  the  cycle  of  day  and  night ; 
The  Peers  of  Eld  from  glory  cast. 
The  sprites  of  woe  who  wing  the  blast ; 
Who  guide  the  flame  and  waste  the  earth 
With  battle,  pestilence,  and  dearth. 

And  around  him  as  they  stood^ 

He  mutter'd,  in  wrathful  moodji 

^  Let  the  fiends  of  human  brood 

Who  have  crush'd  the  pure  and  goodj 

An>ear  with  claim  of  might. 

That  he  who  proves  his  right, 

May  be  lord  of  a  darker  spell 

And  a  higher  throne  in  hell. 
Forth  msh'd,  with  aspect  fierce  and  proud, 

FiTe  Shapes  of  human  form 
Who  seem'd  as  through  ages  of  pain  and  woe 

Xl^y  had  bftthid  in  the  flame  and  storm ; 


And  they  mingled,  their  voices  and  howled  their 

prayer 
So  wildly  and  loud,  that  the  sulphur'ous  air 
Was  shattered  by  sounds  unwonted  in  hell, 
Surpassing  the  music  of  shriek  and  yeU. 
The  monarch  at  length  his  sceptre  shook, 
And  sternly  swore,  by  bell  and  book. 
Who  uttered  a  breath  till  leave  was  given. 
For  amillion  of  years  to  the  vaults  should  be  driven. 

Strode  forth  a  portly  peer. 

Of  giant  bulk  and  mould. 
And  voice  that  split  the  ear 

Of  devils  stem  and  bold. 
^  In  Nimrod,"  quoth  the  Shape, 

*'  A  hunter  wild  and  fi«e. 
For  famine,  plague  and  rape 

Renowned  gloriously, 
I  swept  the  bright  young  Earth 

And  pour'd  the  crimson  flood; 
I  slanghter'd  babes  at  birth, 

And  danced  while  flow'd  their  blood. 

« I  kindled  hero  fire 
In  youthhood's  glowing  breast, 


5a 


LAYS  OF  A  NEW  ERA. 


Till  every  young  desire 

III  Nimrod's  form  was  drest. 
Like  Nimrod,  town-destroyer, 

Manslayer,  woman-spoiler, 
Blooi-hnnter,  yengeance-oloyer, 

Hope-blighter,  gladness-foiler. 
All  long'd,like  me,  to  sweep 

The  earth  with  sword  and  flame; 
On  warm  crush'd  hearts  to  leap. 

And  gain  a  conqueror's  name.'* 

Impatient  of  longer  delay, 

Rush'd  forth  to  the  lurid  ray 

That  stream'd  from  the  monarch's  firebound  brow, 

A  Shape  that  was  sable  and  ghastly  now;^ 

But  had  once  been  wreath'd  in  human  form, 

An  incarnate,  wild,  yet  loyely  storm : 

"  Whose  fiime  than  Semiramis'  greater  hath  been, 

Of  a  death-stricken  world,  the  conquering  queen  ! 

Who  should  boast  of  a  loftier  throne  than  die, 

Who  unrobed  her  of  sex  and  humanity. 

And  sped  like  the  glance  of  a  baleful  star, 

A  meteor  of  haroc,  and  ruin,  and  war; 

Casting  a  blight  on  a  land  of  bloom. 

Piling  a  human  hecatomb 

Of  the  last  of  a  land's  defenders,  wher9 

Its  capital's  ashes  were  scatter'd  in  air ! 

If  thrones  are  in  hell  for  deeds  of  evil. 

The  Queen  of  old  Assur  may  reign  with  the  DeTil." 

*<  Talk  not  of  Nineveh's  fkme. 

Speak  not  of  Assur'S  glory. 
When  the  hero  who  blotted  the  name 

Of  its  victor  from  earth  is  before  ye. 
Let  the  shores  of  Hydaspes  and  Nile, 

The  walls  of  Arbela  and  Tyre, 
Attest  how  he  lived  in  the  smile 

Of  the  demons  whose  dwelling  is  fire  ! 
By  the  chains  of  the  west  and  the  east, 

By  the  crimson  of  sand  and  of  river. 
By  the  vulture's  unparallel'd  feast. 

Be  the  sceptre  Iskander's  for  ever !" 

So  bold  was  the  step,  and  so  keen  the  eye. 
Of  the  youth  who  spoke  with  neck  awry. 
That  Semiramis  leer'd,  and  heaved  a  sigh, 
That  the  days  of  the  turtle  had  long  gone  by. 

Of  grisly  mien,  decrepit,  lame. 

And  bowed  with  age  the  next  who  came ; 

Yet  glanced  he  with  disdaiuAil  eye. 

On  all  his  rivals  huge  and  high. 

And  cried,  '*  I  hold  it  foulest  scorn 

To  touch  the  plumes  those  brows  have  worn; 


What  human  fiend,  renown'd,  aecnrs'd. 
All  human  ties,  like  me,  hath  burst  1 
Go,  track  my  army's  footsteps  o'er,' 
A  hundred  realms  bestain'd  with  gore; 
A  thousand  my  march  hath  sped, 
O'er  smoking  plains  untenanted. 
Save  by  the  dying  and  the  dead; 
O'er  frozen  climes  of  endless  day, 
I  flung  a  torch  of  ghastlier  ray. 
And  left  the  waste  of  Astracan, 
To  flre  the  towers  of  Ispahan; 
The  shrieks  that  followed  my  Moguls, 
Aleppo's  pyramid  of  sculls. 
The  sapds  of  Ind  with  crimson  wet, 
The  iron  cage  of  Bajazet, 
Attest  no  rival's  right  to  reign 
Beside  the  throne  of  Tamerlane." 


Who  next  with  arms  across  his  breast. 

And  iron  brow,  and  lip  compress'd. 

With  quick  step  darted  fhim  among 

The  scathed,  and  grim,  and  ghostly  throng  f 

He  spoke  of  Marengo,  of  Lodi,  Eylau; 

Of  the  Syrian  sands,  and  of  Muscovy's  snow ; 

And  talk'd  of  refinement  unheard  by  the  Attics; 

How  men  might  be  murder'd  by  pure  mathematics; 

Of  arts  to  Isbmder  and  Timour  unknovm. 

For  cheek-mating  Freedom,  and  gaining  a  throne. 

"  You're  pretty  fellows,  upon  my  word," 
Cried  Nick,  when  he  the  last  had  heard. 
^  And  sooth  to  say,  it  would  confound  all 
My  wits  to  name  the  greatest  scoundrel. 
But  since  you've  all,  most  worthy  knaves, 
Avouch'd  yourselves  my  faithAil  slaves. 
My  Judgment  still  your  aid  shall  need; 
Let  him  yourselves  shall  grant  the  meed 
Of  highest  praise,  be  deepest  fiung 
In  fiery  vault,  and  deadliest  stung 
By  pangs  his  victims  felt  in  death. 
In  likeness  of  a  scorpion-wreath  !" 

All  started,  and  looked  rather  blue, 

« 'Twas  you.  Sir !"— «  O,  no,  Sir;  'twaa  you  I" 

Such  a  hubbub  ascended. 

Disclaimers  were  blended; 

And  loud  protestations 

Of  meekness  and  patience, 

Of  harmless  docility. 

And  wondrous  humility. 
That  Nicholas  bawled,  with  amaiement,  *^  Go, 
Fiends;  trundle  them  all  to  the  vaults  below !" 

Cyrus. 


LITERARY  REGISTER. 


The  Vital  StatUties  of  ShejfUId,  By  G.  Calvert  Hol- 
land, Esq.,  M.D.,  Physician-Extraordinary  to  the 
Shefiield  General  Infirmary,  &c.,  &c.,  &c.  Octavo, 
TO.  263.    London:  Tyas. 

This  is  another  of  the  Books  of  the  new  era ;  one  of 
the  Reports  of  the  Commissions  assumed  rather  than  ap- 
pointed— ^by  public  spirit,  philanthropy,  and  progressive 
opinion  ;  one  of  the  many  disjointed  summaries,  all  bear- 
ing upon  one  grei^  subject,  the  "  Condition-of-England 
Question," — the  social,moral,  and  physical  state  of  the  mil- 
lions. Nooneisbetterqualifiedforprosecutingsuch  inves- 
tigations with  advantage  than  a  liberal-minded,  and  intel- 
ligent medical  practitioner,in  a  populous  town.  His  know- 
ledge and  his  general  pursuits  are  intimately  connected 
with  a  knowledge  of  the  condition  of  the  pe<^le.  He 
sees  them  as  they  are,  the  best  with  the  worst,  even 
nore  closely  than  their  clergyman,  though  he  phonld  be 


a  Roman  Catholic  priest  All  these  pre-requisite  qoali- 
fications  are  possessed  by  Dr.  Holland.  With  the 
greater  part  of  his  elaborate  work  we  cannot  inteifere; 
nor  are  the  merely  descriptive  parts  of  much  conse- 
quence beyond  the  immediate  locality.  The  really  Vitai 
StatitticM  commence  with  the  chapters  on  the  compara- 
tive manufacturing  distress  of  the  present  and  pa^ 
periods.  Dr.  Holland's  Tables  do  not  show  the  distress 
of  the  late  period  of  depression  to  have  been  greater 
than  in  former  periods ;  arguing  chiefly,  howeTer,  from 
the  diminished  poor-rates.  The  working-people  of 
Sheffield  are  much  better  lodged  than  in  Liveipool  and 
Manchester ;  and  it  is  a  gratifying  foot,  that  there  is  not 
one  cellar  inhabited  by  human  beings  in  the  whole 
town.    This,  says  Dr.  Holland, 

Is  somewhat  remarkable.      It  would  natundly  ^ 
supposed)  that  where  the  largest  fortunes  iveve  accu- 


LITERARY  REGISTER. 


nnlftied,  wfaera  wealth  in  fact  most  abounded,  the  con- 
dition of  the  laboaring  classes  would  be  the  most  inde- 
pendent and  comfortable.  Such,  however,  appears  not 
to  be  the  ease.  We  have  no  hesitation  in  asserting  that 
the  artisans  here,  as  a  body,  are  vastly  superior  in  in- 
telligence, independence,  and  in  the  command  of  the 
neceasaries  and  Inxnries  of  life  to  the  same  class  in  the 
aboTe-mentioned  towns.  We  will  not  attempt  to  account 
for  results  so  little  in  harmony  with  the  prevailing  opin- 
ion, on  the  necessary  connexion  between  the  creation 
of  wealth  and  the  improvement  in  the  condition  of  this 
all-important  class  of  producers.  We  question  the  con- 
nexion, and  regret  that  facts  do  not  indisputably  estab- 
lish it. 

Tlie  number  of  unoccupied  honses  may,  however,  be 
one  reason  that  no  ailart  are  yet  occupied  as  dwell- 
ings. The  building  mania  seized  the  speculators  of 
Sheffield  during  the  last  term  of  manufacturing  prospe- 
rity, as  strongly  as  it  did  those  of  other  tovms ;  and  oper- 
ated in  the  self-same  way,  so  far  as  dwellings  for  the 
poor  were  concerned : — 

Individuals,  who  could  command  only  a  few  hundred 
ponnds,  were  induced  to  erect  numerous  small  houses. 
The  calculation  was  to  realize  from  10  to  12  per  cent.; 
and  this  was  frequently  accomplished  by  the  exceed- 
ingly dight  and  disgraceful  character  of  the  dwellings. 
An  acenate  description  of  the  economical  methods 
adopted,  the  ingennity  practised,  would  scarcely  be  be- 
lieTed.  In  ordinary  buildings,  the  bond  timber  which  is 
inserted  into  the  walls,  is  generally  three  inches  thick : 
hit  in  these  modem  structures,  it  is  usually  an  inch,  and 
oMasionally  not  more  than  three-quarters  of  an  inch. 

The  rest  is  of  corresponding  character  : — 
There  is  one  speculator  alone,  destitute  of  capital, 
who  has  built  200  houses,  not  in  the  space  of  years,  but 
almost  m  the  course  of  months;  numbers  of  which  are  at 
present  untenanted.  As  evidence  of  the  general  char- 
acter of  this  class  of  men,  some  of  them  actually  cannot 
write  their  names. 

Fewer  persons  live  in  one  house  than  ten  years  ago; 
ud  the  speculative  builder,  in  spite  of  the  many  un- 
ocenpied  honses,  still  finds  encouragement  to  build. 
Hwre  is,  we  presume,  in  Sheffield  as  everywhere  else, 
a  fashion  in  the  style  of  building,  and  an  attraction  in 
particular  localities,  which  give  an  adventitious  value 
to  some  streets  and  houses,  and  unduly  lower  the  value 
of  others.  Honses  and  buildings  in  general  have,  how- 
erer,  within  five  years,  fallen  25  per  cent,  in  value  ;  yet 
speculators  still  go  on  building. 

However  opposed  the  result  may  be  to  the  acknow- 
ledged principles  or  theories  of  Political  Economy,  it 
seems  probable,  that  the  superior  condition  of  the  arti- 
sans of  Sheffield  may  be  owing,  as  Dr.  Holland  alleges, 
to  the  great  number  of  masters  who  can  carry  on,  with 
adraatage^  their  business  on  those  small  capitals  which, 
io  the  cotton,  silk,  and  woollen  trades,  and  all  others  re- 
qniring  a  vast  outlay  for  mills  and  machinery,  would  be 
hot  a  drop  in  the  ocean.  ''  This  circumstance,"  says 
Br.  Holland, 

Is  not  vrithout  its  beneficial  effects.  The  absence  of 
a  few  large  fortunes  is  more  than  compensated  by  the 
■«ch  greater  proportion  of  the  middle  classes,  and  the 
higher  condition  of  the  artisans,  than  in  districts  where 
tW  few  are  the  monopolisers  of  wealth.  The  influence 
^this  circumstance  is  observed,  in  a  marked  degree,  in 
the  ehaneter  of  the  oottage  accommodation  in  this 
towB.  Here  fiunilies  are  not  crowded  into  one  house, 
as  in  Manchester,  Liverpool,  Bolton,  Stockport,  and 
RMhdale,  but  each  has  generally  an  independent  or  en- 
tire dwelling  ;  nor  are  the  houses  so  constructed,  that 
the  only  ingress  to  them  is  a  narrow  alley,  or  a  confined 
e«l-de-nc.  They  either  front  streets,  or  open  Into  mo- 
dentely  Radons  yards* 


Having  referred  to  the  fewef  numbers  living  in  each 
separate  house,  he  states  : — 

We  observe  very  different  proportions  in  England  and 
Scotland  generally,  and,  also,  in  the  great  mannfactur- 
ing  towns,  where  the  few  accumulate  immense  fortunes ; 
and  from  such  differences  alone,  we  should  infer,  which 
is  the  fact,  a  much  more  degraded  condition  of  the  la- 
bouring classes.  The  machine  not  only  enriches  the 
monopolist  of  wealth,  but  creates,  at  the  same  time,  a 
large  amount  of  wretchedness,  suffering,  and  disease. 

Having  exhibited  the  relative  state  of  house  accom- 
modation in  the  four  great  manufacturing  and  commer- 
cial towns  of  Manchester,  Liverpool,  Bolton,  and  Roch- 
dale, Dr.  Holland  continues — 

How  marked  is  the  difference  in  the  social  condition 
of  the  population  in  Liverpool  and  Manchester,  as  indi- 
cated by  these  facts,  compared  with  Sheffield  1  Every 
1000  inhabitants  in  Liverpool  are  living  in  fewer  houses 
by  57,  and  in  Manchester  by  37,  than  the  population  of 
this  town :  so  that,  in  the  former  place,  there  are  nearly 
seven  persons  to  each  house,  in  the  latter  nearly  six, 
and  in  Sheffield  about  five.  In  general  terms,  there  are 
in  Liverpool  700  persons  to  every  100  honses— in  Man- 
chester 600,  and  in  this  town  500.  These  different  pro- 
portions have  corresponding  degrees  of  wretchedness 
and  disease. 

The  public  roads,  drainage,  and  sewerage  of  Sheffield, 
are  superior  to  these  towns,  though  far  from  being  perfect ; 
and  the  rate  of  mortality  in  Sheffield  is  considerably 
under  that  of  Liverpool  and  Manchester.  Typhus,  that 
fearfhl  scourge  of  poor  communities,  seldom  visits  the  town. 
The  injurious  nature  of  the  employments  of  the  artisans 
of  Sheffield  is,  however,  one  active  cause  of  a  high  morta- 
lity. There  are  others,  which  are  applicable  to  all  manu- 
facturing towns  ;  as  dissipation,  and  early  imprudent 
marriages.  The  following  statement  may  account  for 
some  of  the  social  evils  of  the  working-people  in  many 
more  towns  than  Sheffield : — 

Dissipation  has  always  existed  to  a  painfrd  extent 
among  great  numbers  of  the  grinders,  which  is  to  be 
ascribed  to  several  circumstances.  In  general  they  are 
put  to  work  very  early,  without  having  received  any 
education  whatever :  hence  their  ignorance  is  the  source 
of  many  evils.  They  have  few  mental  resources  of  en- 
joyment within  themselves.  One  prominent  and  most 
baneAil  evil  springing  out  of  this  ignorance,  is  early 
marriages.  The  ability  to  support  a  wife,  never  appears 
to  be  a  consideration  with  many  of  them;  and  indeed  the 
more  indigent  they  are,  the  earlier  do  they  marry;  and 
a  large  proportion  of  this  class  of  grinders  marry  girls 
employed  in  manufactures,  whose  habits  and  ignorance 
of  household  affairs  are  ill-calculated  to  enable  them  to 
use,  to  the  best  advantage,  what  is  earned.  We  speak 
ttom  extensive  inquiries  when  we  assert,  that  the  more 
wretched  the  condition  of  the  artisans,  the  earlier  do 
they  marry. 

In  our  opinion,  the  employment  of  girls  in  shops  is 
fraught  with  a  greater  amount  of  evil  to  the  wellbeing 
of  society,  than  almost  any  other  cause  coexistent  with 
manufactures.  It  is  the  source  of  a  low  tone  of  mora- 
lity, ignorance,  and  suffering.  In  some  of  the  branches 
of  trade  carried  on  in  this  town,  girls  are  extensively 
employed;  and,  with  few  exceptions,  in  the  same  room 
with  men  and  boys ;  or  pursue  their  labours  in  constant 
intercourse  with  them.  As  long  as  this  practice  pre^ 
vails,  much  of  the  good  that  education  would  produce 
will  be  counteracted ;  and  generation  after  generation 
will  arise,  presenting  little  improvement  is  feelings  or 
habits. 

Dr.  Holland  seems  to  believe  that  periods  of  prosperity 
are  more  calculated  to  undermine  the  morals  of  the  arti- 
sans, than  those  times  of  adversity,  which  forcibly  teach 
the  necessity  of  forethought,  temperance,  and  frugality. 
And  among  ill-instruoted  men, this  maybe  true,  He  states 


5a 


tlTERARY  REGISTER. 


one  powerful  c&vse -of  the  iSrdf  improyenieQt  of  the 
class,  to  be  the  very  early  age  at  which  children  ia  many 
branohes  are  set  to  regular  work.  He  says- 
There  is  a  remarkable  difference  between  the  intelli- 
gence, morality,  and  independence  of  the  workmen,  and 
the  artisans  in  branches  in  which  the  yonng  are  seldom 
admitted  under  fourteen  years  of  age.  Many  facts,  in  con- 
firmation of  this,  are  given  in  the  analysis  of  the  several 
trades  in  a  subsequent  part  of  this  inquiry.  Another 
circumstance,  fraught  with  much  evil  and  worthy  of  no- 
tice, ia  the  employment  of  girlt  and  women  in  manufac- 
tories. The  introduction  of  them  has  greatly  increased 
of  late  yearsy  in  all  branches  in  which  they  can  be  made 

useful It  will  readily  be 

admitted,  that  a  workshop  is  a  very  indifferent  school 
fbr  the  Aiture  wife,  the  duties  of  which  are  usually  un- 
dertaken at  an  early  age.  To  every  person  acquainted 
with  mannfkotures,  it  is  manifest,  that  one  of  the  great 
and  growing  evils,  unfavourable  to  the  progress  of  mo- 
rality and  intelligence,  is  the  extent  to  which  females 
are  employed  in  workshops.  The  influence  of  this  oir- 
onmstanoe  extends  widely,  and  counteracts  much  of  the 
good  that  education  would  otherwise  produce.  The  Are- 
quent  associations  which  in  oonsequence  take  place 
among  the  sexes  in  very  early  life — ^the  vicious  habits 
which  are  formed,  and  the  marriages  which  result,  with 
little  thought  or  provision  for  the  future,  render  the  do- 
mestic hearth  not  one  of  comfort  to  the  husband,  nor  a 
school  of  virtue  to  the  children.  Ignorance,  wretched- 
ness, and  dissipation,  are  the  evils  which  spring  luxuri- 
antly out  of  such  circumstances,  and  are  multiplied  in 
the  successive  generations.  The  progress  of  civilisation 
must  not  be  measured  by  the  creation  of  wealth ;  nor  does 
the  latter  afford  a  just  indication  of  the  amount  of  hap- 
piness pervading  society.  The  intensity  of  the  struggle 
to  accumulate  riches,  is  familiar  with  disappointments 
and  anxieties,  and  is  too  apt  to  exert  a  painful  degree 
of  pressure  on  the  millions-— the  instruments  in  the  pro- 
cess. The  imposing  expression  of  independence  and 
affluence  in  the  few,  must  not  mislead  us  in  our  estimate 
of  the  condition  of  the  many.  .  .  .  There 
never  was  a  period  in  the  history  of  this  country,  or,  per- 
haps of  the  world,  in  which  the  same  amount  of  indigence 
and  crime  existed,  in  relation  to  the  population,  and  in 
association  with  boundless  wealth,  inactive  and  unprofit- 
able, or  overflowing  in  the  refined  indulgences  of  a  self- 
ish and  luxurious  age. 

The  employment  of  girls  and  women,  is  both  an  effect 
and  cause  of  this  state  of  tilings  ;  and  though  there  are 
evils  which  the  legislature  cannot  remove,  this  is  one 
which  admits  of  considerable  correction.  The  town 
council  of  Leeds,  in  their  statistical  inquiry,  remark,  in 
allusion  to  this  subject : — *^  Take,  on  the  other  hand,  a 
mill  girl  from  the  town  ;  she  leaves  her  work  and  has- 
tens to  her  associates,  with  whom,  during  the  day,  she 
has  planned  some  project  for  the  evening  ;  her  father  is 
at  the  public  house  ;  her  mother,  thus  leilt  for  months, 
has  herself  become  careless  in  her  person,  and  almost 
reckless  in  her  habits  :  the  daughter  thus  has  no  one  to 
guide  her  ;  her  associates  at  home  and  abroad  are  aban- 
doned ;  eventually  she  becomes  so  herself,  and  is  lost  to 
all  sense  of  decency." 

The  peculiar  nature  of  the  manufactures  of  Sheffield 
do  not  admit  of  immense  or  large  fortunes  being  realized 
by  a  class  of  persons  upon  whose  character  Pr.  Holland 
thus  moralizes — 

Men  spring  up  suddenly  into  a  commanding  position 
in  society,  with  immense  energies  and  determined  enter- 
prise— stimulated  by  one  feeling — the  thirst  to  make  a 
fortune.  The  success  of  their  exertions  is  in  no  degree 
retarded  by  any  refined  or  delicate  considerations  con- 
cerning the  mode  ;  education  gives  no  relish  to  partici- 
pate in  the  pleasures  of  social  life  ;  time  is  too  valuable 
to  be  wasted  in  the  interchange  of  thought,  or  in  the  dis- 
cussion of  matters  which  have  not  an  immediate  and  ob- 
vious practical  application.  No  field  opens  to  seduce  the 
intellect  to  look  abroad,  or  to  impart  the  first  elements 
of  tastC;  by  which  the  mind  might  be  tempted  to  forget  1 


I  its  rigid  duty — which  is  action,  and  not  oontemplatioo. 
Thus,  fortunes  so  created  are  too  generally  associated  with 
little  that  is  generous  in  sentiment,  liberal  in  principle, 
or  elevated  in  view.  The  manu&cturer  is  an  animated 
machine,  and  as  regular  in  the  routine  of  his  operations, 
and  often  as  insensible  of  the  condition  and  necessities 
of  the  artisans.  The  success  which  results,  engenders 
an  intolerant  and  overbearing  disposition.  The  indiTi- 
dual  claims  for  wealth  what  belongs  to  mind ;  and  looks 
upon  all  acquirements  as  things  of  no  use  in  this  world, 
unless  they  throw  light  on  the  process  of  money-making— 
the  secret  of  which  depends  not  on  large  cultivated  men- 
tal powers,  but  on  determined  energy^  and  the  concen- 
tration of  a  few  faculties. 

This  is,  however,  stating  things  in  the  extreme.  The 
means  of  education  appear  more  scanty  in  Sheffield  than 
those  of  religious  instruction,  save  to  the  miserably  poor, 
who  need  religious  instruction  most,  and  have  least  op* 
portunity  of  obtaining  it;  but  of  late  the  Church,  and 
also  the  Independents  and  Methodists'  are  paying  more 
attention   to  schools.      The  fault  of  Dr.    Holland's 
book,  as  one  addressed  to  the  country  at  large,  is  its 
bulk  and  extent  of  detail.    A  pamphlet,  like  that  of  Dr. 
Kaye*s  of  Manchester,  would  better  have  served  his  por- 
pose,  save  with  those  having  a  local  interest  in  all  that 
can  be  said  about  their  own  tovm.    The  book,  however, 
contains  all  the  material  for  what  we  mean,  and  a!  great 
deal  more;  and  must  have  cost  the  author  great  pains. 
Wandfrin^s  of  a  Journeyman  Tailor  through  Europe  awd 
the  East,  from  1 824  to  1 840.    By  P.  D.  Holthans,  Jour- 
neyman Tailor,  from  Werdohl  in  Westphalia.    Trans- 
lated from  the  German  by  William  Hewitt.    12mo, 
pp.  288.    Longman  &  Co. 

We  love  all  German  tailors  for  the  sake  of  one — Hein- 
RICH  Stilling.  Holthaus  is  not  a  Stilling  ;  but  he  is  an 
amusing  fellow,  gifted  with  a  prodigious  organ  of  local* 
ity ;  and  would  have  been  quite  a  marvel  had  his  travels 
been  undertaken  three  centuries  sooner,  when  there  was 
still  something  new  to  be  seen  and  told.  The  personal 
adventures  and  difficulties  of  the  Tailor,  working  his  way 
through  Germany,  Hungary,  and  Poland,and  into  Turkey, 
and  afterwards  to  the  Holy  Land ;  catching,  also,  a 
glimpse  of  Greece,  Italy,  France,  and  Belgium,  have, 
however,  an  interest  belonging  to  them  which  we  look 
for  in  vain  in  the  works  of  those  modem  travellers  who 
never  think  of  setting  out  without  money  in  their  pockets. 
In  his  descriptions  of  places  and  manners,  we  cannot 
help  thinking  that  the  tailor  must  have  refreshed  his 
memory  after  he  came  home,  or,  perhaps,  enlarged 
his  knowledge  by  a  little  reading  before  he  set  out; 
as  it  is  not  likely  that  any  tailor  could,  in  his  rambles, 
have  picked  up  so  much  information  about  the  customs 
of  the  East  from  personal  observation. 

At  the  age  of  sixteen,  our  Tailor,  having  lost  hit 
parents,  set  out  on  his  travels  after  the  custom  of  all  the 
German  artisans  ;  working  a  few  weeks  or  months  in 
the  different  towns  as  employment  offered,  or  inclination 
prompted  ;  drinking  beer  when  he  had  money,  and  con- 
tent with  saltless  meal-dumplings  when  it  failed  ;  often 
ragged  and  shoeless,  but  never  out  of  spirits  ;  strolling  on, 
Wander-Book  in  hand,  until  he  had  seen  nearly  all  Ger- 
many, and  all  its  most  famous  sights.  But  ho  has  re- 
peatedly travelled  in  the  Fatherland.  His  desoriptions 
have  the  merit  of  extreme  brevity,  or  how  could  he  have 
told  half  so  much  as  he  has  done  t  After  wandering  five 
years  in  the  Beloved  Fatherland,  Holthaus  entered  Hun- 
gary, on  his  route,  though  yet  undetermined,  to  the  East, 
But  hezig*zagged  continually;  and  often,  after  long  inter* 
vals,  passed  over  the  eame  ground*    Here  we  gleasi  as  % 


LITERARY  REGISTEBi 


^9 


apecimen^  a  hit  of  description  of  Mr.  Borro^T's  favour- 
ites:— 

We  were  not  for  iVom  Presburg,  when  at  once  we 
beard  in  the  distance,  a  singing,  ehonting,  and  halloo- 
ing, which  continually  drew  nearer.  Presently  we  met 
four  wagons,  in  which  a  brown  company  of  gipsies  were 
fietted.  It  was  a  cnrions  sight.  There  sate  men  and 
women,  girls  and  boys,  all  dark  as  half-negroes,  in  rag- 
ged array,  with  long  shining  hair,  smeared  after  the 
Hnngarian  fashion  with  lard.  We  gazed  at  them  with 
astoniahment.  Scarcely  had  the  merry  company  passed 
US,  when  a  wagon  halted.  The  little,  starved,  and  skele- 
ton horse,  of  which  yon  might  count  eyery  rib,  could 
no  longer  continue  the  gallop.  He  stood  still,  and 
eoold  not  be  moTed  from  the  spot.  They  did  not  stand 
long  considering,  but  took  a  piece  of  wood  from  the 
wagon,  and  belaboured  the  wretched  beast  till  it  fell 
dead  in  the  harness.  The  dingy  company  were  now  ob- 
liged to  pursue  their  journey  on  foot ;  but  the  loss  was 
not  great,  and  night  would  see  them  in  possession  of 
another  back  ;  for  the  gipsies  understand  rery  well  how 
to  set  about  horse-stealing,  for  thieying  is  properly  their 
profession.  This  people  haye  in  this  country  their  pe- 
eoliarseat.  They  are  scattered  throughout  all  Hun- 
gary, l^ebenblirgen,  Wallachia,  and  '^key,  and  we 
ifterwirds  enoonntered  them  yery  often. 

Tboe  are  also  amongst  the  gipsies  handworkers,  but 
onlj  ia  iron  ;  smiths,  who  make  nails,  horse-shoes,  and 
snirifen.    The  greater  portion  of  them,  howeyer,  consists 
of  wudering  yagabonds,  who  practise  robbery,  theft, 
and  ftrtnne-telling.  There  are,  too,  amongst  them  many 
ooadans,  who  play  on  all  sorts  of  instruments,  but  sel- 
doB  ftom  note»--although  they  steal  by  the  notes.  The 
msadana  and  smiths  in  all  the  villages  are  gipsies.  For 
a  glass  of  palinka,  or  brandy,  they  will  do  almost  any- 
thing.   Boys  and  girls  go  about  till  twelve  years  old 
ahnost  entirely  naked.    Others,  clad  in  rags,  swarming 
with  vermin  of  every  species.   If  yon  encounter  them  on 
the  way,  all  run  and  beset  you  with  begging  most  im- 
portunately.    Women  and  girls  set  aside  all  shame,  and 
are  the  most  teazing  of  all  the  crew.     The  gipsies  nei- 
ther sow  nor  reap,  and  yet  the  Heavenly  Father  feeds 
them  ;  like  the  birds  of  the  air,  they  take  and  eat  what 
they  find  on  the  roads.    I  even  saw  them  eat  dead  fowls 
sad  geese  which  they  dragged  from  the  dunghills,  and 
hardly  plaeking  them,  devoured  them  raw,  or  only  a 
little  wanned  over  the  fire.      The  women  carry  the 
children  about  on  the  back  till  they  can  run.  They  work, 
dance,  and  run  with  this  burden  ;  the  children  making 
so  outcry  only  when  they  are  hungry. 

My  oomrade,  at  the  sight  of  this  noble  band,  lost  all 

courage  to  travel  further  into  Hungary 

In  my  yoath  I  had  heard  of  Hungary,  as  of  a  country 
that  lay  aa  it  were  under  the  world.  No  longer  in  Ger- 
many, but  amidst  strange  and  singular  people,  whose 
language  I  did  not  understand,  I  strode  forward,  hoping 
for  the  best.  Bnt  my  old  desires  and  old  courage 
trinmphed.  The  stranger  that  men  and  countries  were 
to  me,  the  more  curious  was  I  to  gaze  around  me.  It 
was  a  beautiful  and  a  blessed  land  that  lay  before  me  ; 
many  of  my  companions  on  my  travels,  and  in  the  Her- 
hergs,  had  nXd  so  much  of  it  to  me.  Therefore,  for- 
ward ! 

While  on  his  second  wandering  in  Hungary,  the 
Tailor  had  this  singular  adventure,  one  worse  far  than 
the  combat  of  St.  George  and  the  Dragon  : — 

Immediately  beyond  Pesth,  but  particularly  f^m 
Uiakolz  onwai^,  where  also  many  Slavnikens  live,  be- 
gun a  waste  and  desert  region.  There  are  immense 
plains  of  sand,  clothed  with  dry  grass  ;  heaths,  where 
JOQ  see  nothing  but  isolated  huts  of  shepherds  and 
lierdtmen,  called  Pusten.  But  these  shepherds  are  no 
good  ahepherda ;  they  resemble  rather  wolves  in  sheep's 
dotfaiBg,  and  are  extremely  thievish  and  rascally.  They 
keep  whole  troopa  of  wolf-dogs,  and  when  a  traveller 
appears,  they  hound  these  beasts  upon  him.  Such  a  re- 
ception was  mine  :  I  was  walking  quite  unsuspiciously 
over  the  Debreziner  heath,  when  at  once  I  found  myself 
*w*uiM  by  twelre  large  bounds.    The  shepherds^ 


who  had  set  them  upon  me,  watched  from  a  distance  the 
progress  of  the  affair.  To  defend  myself  from  these 
creatures,  which  flew  upon  me  from  all  sides,  I  struck 
in  every  direction  with  my  stick,  and  with  all  my 
might ;  bnt  they  pressed  bo  fhriously  upon  me  that  I 
considered  myself  as  lost.  In  this  extremity  of  danger, 
there  occurred  to  me  suddenly  an  idea :  I  took  my  hat 
in  my  mouth,  put  my  stick  between  my  legs,  as  a  great 
tail,  and  stooping  almost  double,  I  dashed  fiercely  upon 
them.  This  took  effect ;  they  were  startled,  stood  still, 
and  I  vnis  at  liberty  to  pursue  my  way  in  peace  to  De- 
brezin. 

In  this  whole  district  through  which  I  travelled,  live 
the  thorough  full-blood  Hungarians.  They  are  dothed 
nearly  the  same  as  the  Baitzen,  except  that  they  wear 
only  short  boots  or  Ischismen  of  sheep-leather,  with  spurs 
attached.  The  common  Hungarian  wears  patschen  or 
sandals,  if  he  does  not  go  barefoot ;  white  linen  tronsers, 
probably  a  couple  of  ells  in  vridth,  and  fastened  round 
the  body  vnth  a  lace  ;  a  short  shirt,  which,  like  the  Rait- 
zen,  he  smears  with  bacon  ;  and  between  the  trousers 
and  shirt  is  also  a  breadth  of  sun-burnt  skin  to  be 
seen.  The  long  hair  is  also  pomaded  vnth  bacon.  They 
carry  almost  oonstantly  along  stick  filled  vrith  lead,  and 
Airmshed  at  bottom  vrith  a  thick  knob.  Their  hats  are 
low,  with  brims  of  three-quarters  of  an  ell  wide,  and 
serve  them  frequently  for  drinking  vessels.  The  citizen 
of  the  middle  rank  wears  blue  narrow  trousers,  and  a 
blue  spencer,  set  with  large  silver  buttons.  In  vrinter, 
too,  he  has  usually  a  great  tat  oloak  about  him.  The 
Hungarian  nobles  wear  Attila-coats  ;  they  are  yery 
proud,  and  make  excessive  show.  Especially  do  they 
understand  making  a  great  noise  with  their  spurs.  When 
they  dance,  they  strike  their  heels  together,  and  the  spurs 
ring  amazingly.  If  a  gipsy  only  lets  his  fiddle  be  heard, 
away  goes  the  dance.  Their  peculiar  dances  are  very 
artificial.  They  twist  their  huge  mustaches  into  men-* 
strous  rat-tails. 

The  reader  may  now  guess  the  kind  of  entertainment 
he  will  find  in  the  wanderings  of  the  Prussian  Tailor. 
Young  persons,  and  those  to  whom  the  ground  is  new, 
may  find  amusement  in  accompanying  him  ;  but  the  bet- 
ter-instructed will  not  find  much  of  novelty  either  in  the 
objects  which  fell  under  his  notice,  or  his  manner  of 
viewing  them.  The  book  is  popular  in  Germany,  if  we 
may  judge  by  a  Third  Edition  ;  but  it  will,  we  fear,  be 
of  less  general  interest  in  England,  save  as  a  curiosity. 
Dietionnaire  Unirenel  d^Hutoire  et-de  Geographic,  pap 

M.  Bouillet,  Proviseur  dn  College  Royal  de  Bourbon, 

12th  Edition.    Paris:  Machette.    1843. 

The  French  have  hitherto  taken  the  lead  in  great 
works  of  reference,  and  for  an  obvious  reason  :  from  the 
universality  of  their  language,  they  have  looked  to  the 
market  not  only  of  their  own  country,  but  of  Europe  at 
large.  Now,  however,  that  the  German  and  English 
languages  are  more  extensively  studied,  while  the  de- 
mand for  works  of  reference  has  at  the  same  time 
greatly  increased,  the  Teutonic  energies  have  been 
brought  into  the  field  in  a  manner  likely  to  shake  the 
supremacy  of  **  pur  natural  enemy."  The  Conversations 
Lexicon  and  the  great  Encyclopedia  of  Ersch  and  Gru- 
ber,  are  taking  the  place,  among  those  who  read  German, 
of  the  French  works  of  a  like  class ;  and  the  Biogra- 
phical Dictionary  by  the  Society  for  the  Diffusion  of 
Useftil  Knowledge,  bids  fair  to  supersede  the  Biographie 
Universelle,  which  heretofore  had  so  far  excelled  every 
English  work  aiming  at  the  same  character. 

The  French,  however,  seem  still  to  keep  the  lead  in 
the  smaller  and  more  compact  class  of  works  of  refer- 
ence ;  such  as  the  one  now  before  us.  The  almost  total 
absence  of  any  portable  work  which  may  be  trusted  to 
for  accuracy  and  scholarship,  as  a  vehicle  of  general 
refrrenoe  on  biographical,  geographical|  and  historier' 


66 


tlTERARY  REGIStER. 


subjects  is  discreditable  to  our  literatnre.  The  little 
"  Treasuries  "  of  Maunder,  with  all  their  quackish  air, 
are  in  reality  the  best  works  of  the  kind  which  we 
possess.  It  is  eyident,  however,  that  they  are  the  pro- 
ductions of  a  mere  abridger, — a  man  who  knows  nothing 
critically  of  the  subjects  on  which  he  writes ;  and  whose 
qualification  consists  merely  in  a  power  to  abridge  the 
more  lengthy  details  of  larger  works  of  reference  with- 
out making  blunders.  The  work  before  us  is  of  a  very 
different  character ;  and  we  would  feel  gratified  if  it 
were  in  our  power  to  say  that  our  own  language  pos- 
sesses its  parallel.  The  success  which  it  has  met  with 
in  passing  through  eleven  editions,  seems  to  have  incited 
the  editor  to  make  increased  exertions  to  keep  all 
rivalry,  in  what  must  be  a  highly  profitable  work,  at  a 
distance.  The  whole  of  it  is  contained  in  a  single  large 
and  very  closely  printed  volume.  It  ranges  over  the 
whole  field  of  history ;  contains  a  Dictionary  of  Bio- 
graphy and  of  Geography ;  and  famishes  a  sort  of 
Classical  Encyclopedia.  It  embraces,  in  short,  all  de- 
partments of  human  knowledge  which  are  not  connected 
with  natural  science.  It  has  received  an  ofiicial  testi- 
mony in  its  favour  which  there  are  no  means  of  bestow- 
ing in  this  country,  in  being  sanctioned  by  the  Royal 
Council  of  Education,  as  a  book  for  the  use  of  the  uni- 
versities and  public  schools. 

M.  Bouillet  is  not  the  sole  author  of  the  book ;  indeed 
it  is  almost  beyond  the  bounds  of  possibility  that  one 
small  head  should  carry  so  much  learning ;  and  various 
departments  have  been  respectively  treated  by  a  small 
army  of  assistants.  There  is  an  unfortunate  charac- 
teristic of  the  French  language  which  renders  it  pecu- 
liarly ill  adapted  for  works  of  general  reference.  It  is 
very  difficult  to  awaken  Monsieur  from  the  dream  that 
there  is  no  people  that  has  been  or  that  is  upon 
the  face  of  the  earth  worth  thinking  or  speaking  about, 
except  in  its  reference  to  the  Great  Nation.  Hence 
mankind  at  large,  with  their  institutions,  notions,  and 
habits,  have  been  spoken  of  by  French  writers  much  in 
the  spirit  in  which  our  travellers  treat  those  of  Kamt- 
schatka  or  the  Sandwich  Islands:  things  trifiing  in 
themselves,  but  curious  as  a  ground  of  speculation  to 
the  civilized  observer.  Onr  traveller  will  hardly  be 
at  the  pains  to  take  the  name  of  a  prince  of  Ota- 
haite  according  to  perfect  Otaheitean  orthography — 
he  will  content  himself  with  some  half-Anglified  ap- 
proach to  it.  So  London  and  Edinburgh,  not  having 
anything  French  in  their  respective  sounds,  are  con- 
sidered barbarous  names,  which  neither  Young  nor  Old 
France  will  be  at  the  trouble  of  acquiring  ;  and  according 
to  civilized  usage,  they  must  figure  as  **  Londres"  and 
"  Edimbourg."  It  is  true  that  we  have  the  same  defect 
in  our  own  language ;  but  not  to  so  extravagant  an  extent. 
We  call  KiSbenhaven,  Copenhagen ;  and  Ktf  In,  Cologne. 
But  our  encyclopedists  and  geographers  are  getting 
ashamed  of  this  provincialism,  and  are  adopting  what 
seems  to  be  the  only  method  for  the  avoidance  of  con- 
fusion— giving  the  subject  under  the  name  it  is  called 
by  in  the  country  to  which  it  belongs,  and  affording  a 
cross  reference  from  the  name  it  has  acquired  in  our  con- 
versational language  to  that  under  which  it  is  discussed. 
If  this  notice  should  come  under  the  eyes  of  any  manu- 
facturers of  French  works  of  reference,  we  hope  it  may 
induce  them  to  adopt  this  plan.  Their  language  does 
so  clip,  distort,  and  denationalise  the  names  of  persons 
and  places  belonging  to  other  countries,  that  it  is  very 
difficult  to  find  them.    We  have  some  cross-references 


in  the  book  before  us,  but  they  ought  to  be  universal. 
With  wonderful  condescension  the  Frenchman  has  en- 
tered the  word  Haga,  (which  we  call  the  Hague,)  telling 
us  to  look  for  it  at  La  Haey,  which  is  the  name  the 
French  honour  it  with.  There  is  a  cross-reference  too 
from  **Scotfa,  viz.  Ecosse'':  it  would  have  been  too 
much  to  expect  *'  Scotland''  to  be  entered.  But  there  is 
no  head  for  Antwerpen  or  Antwerp.  It  comes  in  solely 
under  its  French  name  Anvers ;  nor  do  we  find  the 
German  town  of  Aachen,  under  any  other  title  than  that 
with  which  the  French  have  chosen  to  christen  it, — Aix- 
la-Chapelle. 

We  British  are  not  guiltless  in  this  respect ;  we 
have  sadly  maltreated  the  ancients.  What  right  have 
we  to  call  Homeros,  Homer ;  or  Horatius,  Horace  ; 
or  Livins,  Livy;  more  than  our  neighbours  to  take 
the  on  from  the  end  of  Thomson,  or  the  irn  from 
Brown  f  But  the  French  beat  us  «in  this  '^  by  a  long 
chalk,"  as  the  Americans  say.  What  can  be  equal  in 
degradation  to  the  conversion  of  Titus  Livins  into  Tite 
Live !  We  give  Sophocles  and  Aristarohus  their  due ; 
but  with  the  French  they  are  Sophocle  and  Aristarque. 
Moreover,  even  in  the  cases  where  our  conversational 
usage  has  mutilated  classical  names,  our  books  of  refer- 
ence restore  them.  Not  so  the  French.  We  look  in  the 
present  book  for  the  head  MsDcenas;  but  there  is  no  such 
entry.    We  must  be  content  with  Mecene. 

With  all  the  defects  which  these  peculiarities  in 
French  literature  predicate,  the  work  before  us  appears 
to  be  an  excellent  one  ;  and  after  having  tested  it  by  a 
multitude  of  references,  we  can  safely  recommend  it  to 
our  readers.  It  will  not  probably  be  consulted  by  them 
for  articles  referring  to  England  and  Scotland:  for 
though  we  are  told  that  Leith  is  three  miles  (viz.  four 
kilometres)  from  Edinburgh,  and  Abbotsford  is  said  to 
be  near  the  river  E^trick,  yet  geography  is  a  depart- 
ment so  liable  to  blunders,  that  we  find  them  per- 
petually occurring  in  our  home  works  of  reference. 
In  a  geographical  work  of  very  great  pretension,  pub- 
lished in  London,  we  find  it  stated  that  the  principal 
street  of  Aberdeen  passes  over  a  magnificent  bridge 
across  the  Firth  of  Forth  ;  and  in  an  edition  of  Brooks' 
Gazetteer,  published  so  lately  as  1835,  we  find  that 
Edinburgh  has  one  member  of  Parliament  chosen  by  the 
Town  Council,  and  that  Aberdeen  united  with  Forfar, 
Montrose,  &c.  in  the  election  of  a  member.  M.  Bouillet's 
book  will  be  especially  useful  to  those  who  wish  to  pos- 
sess a  work  of  accurate  reference  regarding  the  present 
state  of  France  and  its  later  history. 
France ;  her  Governmental,  Adminittratire^  and  Social 

Organization,  expoted  and  considered,  in  tto  Principles, 

its  Workings,  and  Rtsvltt.    8vo,  pp.  226.     London : 

Madden  &  Co. 

This  is  rather  a  remarkable  book,  and  one  which 
would  inevitably  draw  the  paternal  attention  of  the 
French  Grovemment  upon  the  author,  if  it  appeared  in 
France.  It  must  prove  even  more  obnoxious  to  Louis 
Philippe  than  the  Russian  Travels  of  the  Marquis  de 
Custine  can  do  to  the  Emperor  Nicholas.  The  author 
would  seem  to  be  a  thorough  Liberal;  yet,  viewing  his 
work  in  connexion  with  the  crisis,  we  are  not  certain 
but  that  he  has  taken  the  best  line  which  an  adroit  ad- 
vocate of  Legitimacy  could  select.  We  may  be  refining 
too  far,  and  the  purpose  of  the  exposer  may  be  single. 
The  work  is  a  clever  and  able  one  ;  written  with 
a  strong  bias,  no  doubt,  and  highly  coloured,  but 
containing  a  great  deal  of  naked,  plain-spoken  truth, 


LITERARY  REGISTER, 


61 


According  to  this  author,  the  Groyemment  of  Friuice  is 
corrupt  thronghont,  yitiated  from  the  core  to  the  re- 
moteet  extremities;  the  representative  system,  narrow  as 
its  basis  is,  being  more  depraved,  more  under  corrupt 
infiaenoes,  than  even  our  own  old  boroughmongering  or- 
ganization. There  is  a  chapter  on  the  Ministry  of  Public 
lQstniction->upou  National  Education — ^which  seems  to 
OS  pfecaliarly  important;  as  it  establishes  our  own  doc- 
trine, that  no  people  will  ever  be  well  educated,  until 
they  educate  themselves;  or,  in  other  words,  the  means 
being  secured,  that  they  are  themselves  the  agents. 

Th€  ProteOant  Reformation  in  all  Countries ;  including 
Skekket  of  tke  State  and  ProtpeeU  of  the  Ecfonned 
Ckureka ;  a  book  for  Criiical  Times,  By  the  Rev.  John 
Morison,  D.D.    Octavo.    Fisher,  Son,  &  Co. 

This  history  has  a  twofold  purpose.  It  is  meant  to 
give  a  condensed  view  of  the  Protestant  Reformation; 
tod  in  doing  this,  to  act  as  an  antidote  to  modem  Pusey  ism, 
which  is  held  to  differ  little,  substantially,  from  the  sys- 
tem which  the  Reformation  overthrew.  <<  It  is  high 
time,"  says  Dr.  Morison,  in  his  Introduction, « for  the 
sincere  lovers  of  Bible  truth  to  bethink  themselves  of 
*the  eigns  of  the  times;'  to  rally  round  the  living  ora- 
cles; to  contend  earnestly  for '  the  faith  once  delivered 
to  tbesunts;'  and  to  take  good  heed  lest  the  tradi- 
tioos  of  a  cornipt  antiquity  should  be  suffered  to  sup- 
plut  the  plain  and  palpable  doctrines  of  inspired  truth." 
On  this  motive.  Dr.  Morison  has  produced  a  very  read- 
able compilation ;  though  one  which,  almost  of  necessity, 
aost  be  alittle  one-sided.  One-sided  reading  may,  in  some 
mstancesyhave  caused  one-aided  writing.  The  work,  how- 
ever, discovers  no  bitterness,  and  no  vrilfnl  exaggeration, 
llieuthor  merely  dwells  longer  upon  some  subjects  than 
a  strictly  impartial,or  philosophic  historian— if  ever  there 
WIS  one— might  do,  and  treats  others  with  slight  atten- 
tion. This  is,  however,  a  book  that  is  wanted  just  now; 
and  it  will  satisfactorily  supply  the  want  felt. 

laprmions,  ThoughU,  and  Sketches,  during  Two  Years  in 
France  and  Switzerland.  By  Martha  Macdonald 
Umont.  I8mo,  pp.  343.  London  :  Mozon. 
This  is,  to  us,  an  old  friend  with  a  new  face,  and  that  a 
mnch  handsomer  one.  A  considerable  time  since,  we 
found  on  our  table,  a  thick  pamphlet,  printed  on  a  small 
type  in  double  columns,  somewhat  in  the  style  of  Cham- 
herisInformeUionfor  the  People,  but  very  inferior  in  point 
of  paper  and  typography ;  liker,  indeed,  a  Yankee 
pirated  reprint  than  an  original  English  work.  It  was 
» still  greater  discovery,  that,  under  this  homely  guise, 
loxkedan  excellent  book  ;  with  many  redundancies  and 
SBperflaitie8,no  doubt,  as  to  be  expected  in  the  free  cor- 
respondence of  a  daughter  first  separated  from  a  mother 
to  whom  she  was  devotedly  attached,  but  with  many  and 
rare  graces  and  solid  merits.  It  was  said  at  the  time, 
that  we  had  met  with  works  of  a  very  inferior  kind  printed 
handsomely  in  several  volumes,  and  published  by  a 
Miionable  bookseller  ;  and  it  gives  us  pleasure  again  to 
"tteet  with  this  accomplished  lady's  work  in  a  shape 
which  may  ensure  it  an  adequate  degree  of  attention. 
The  young  lady  went  abroad,  probably  to  finish  her 
edncation;  though  her  education,  wherever  it  was  acquir- 
ed, most  have  been  considerably  above  the  average 
before  she  left  England.  The  first  part  of  her  work, 
wliich  is  in  a  series  of  Letters,  relates  to  Paris  alone, 
m  which  she  resided  in  different  boarding-schools  and 
!>c^Hont  I  and  saw  a  good  deal  of  society,  and  of  the  do- 
me*Uc  life  of  the  Parisijins.    This  is,  indeed,  the  feiiture 


which  gives  value  to  her  clever  book.  The  reader  may 
be  certain  that,  so  far  as  Parts  and  iU  People  are  seen 
in  her  pages,  they  are  seen  as  they  exist ;  and  not  as  in 
the  fancies  of  a  dreamer's  eyes,  or  in  the  misshapen  forms 
of  an  undaunted  guesser.  The  tour  in  the  Netherlands 
and  Switzerland  is  of  comparatively  less  value  :  but 
the  adventures  ate  pleasingly  related;  and  the  reflections 
indicate  more  expansion  and  maturity  of  mind  than  one 
expects  to  find  in  a  very  young  person.  She  is  Skjpronounced 
Liberal.  But  w4f  formerly  said  so  much  of  the  merits 
of  this  work,  that  we  must  rest  contented  to  announce 
its  reappearance  in  a  fitting  garb ;  and  not  less  worthy 
of  the  attention  of  a  fit  audience,  from  the  revision  it 
has  undergone. 

The  Emigrant  to  North  America.  From  Memoranda 
of  a  Settler  in  Canada.  By  an  Emigrant  Farmer 
of  twenty  years'  experience.  Blackwood  &  Sons, 
Edinburgh  and  London. 

One  object,  if  not  the  main  object,  of  this  little 
book,  is  to  recommend  Canada  to  British  agricultural 
emigrants,  as  a  field  for  settlement  superior  to  any 
to  be  found  in  the  Western  States  of  America.  The 
work  was  first  printed  in  Canada ;  and  though  we 
will  not  aver  that  everything  happened  to  the  Emigrant 
Farmer  exactly  as  it  is  here  set  down,  and  still  less  to 
his  witty  friend  Rohert  Stevenson,  the  emigrant  from 
Ayrshire,  we  may  safely  state  that  their  letters  contain 
a  condensed  body  of  useftil,  and  we  believe  accurate  in- 
formation, and  will  form  safer  guides  than  works  of 
much  greater  pretension,  and  of  many  times  the  price. 
We  give  but  one  brief  extract;  premising,  that  though 
we  question  some  of  Mr.  Robert  Stevenson's  facts,  we 
by  no  means  doubt  his  general  truth. 

The  land  through  which  I  passed  was  all  good  till  I 
came  near  to  the  town  of  Groderich,  where  it  gets  gra- 
velly. Goderich  is  on  a  high  bank,  overlooking  the 
River  Maitland  and  Lake  Huron,  and  a  very!  bonny 
place  it  is.  I  here  met  with  Dr.  Dunlop,  and  he  asked 
me  to  come  over  and  dine  with  him  ;  he  has  a  bonny 
house  on  the  top  of  a  bank  overlooking  one  of  the  finest 
holms  I  ever  saw,  with  the  Biver  Maitland  wrinding 
through  it.  He  is  a  man  of  most  serious  and- devout 
manners,  but  not  more  so  than  becomes  his  station  as  a 
ruling  elder  of  the  Kirk.  Indeed  I  am  told  he  is  a 
saint  upon  earth.  We  handled  together  divers  spiritual 
matters ;  and,  I  am  happy  to  say,  he  is  to  the  taU  as 
orthodox  as  his  brother  the  advocate,  who  makes  such 
a  rippet  in  the  General  Assembly,  and  who  is  a  well- 
meaning  young  man,  but  not  overburdened  with  brains, 
I'm  doubting. 

The  doctor  showed  me  a  statement  which  was  pub- 
lished  by  the  Canada  Company  about  two  years  ago, 
that  fl!8tonished  me  much,  as  showing  the  rapid  advance- 
ment of  the  Company's  settlements  here,  and  which 
were  only  commenced  in  the  latter  part  of  the  year  1829, 
before  which  period  this  extensive  tract  had  not  even 
been  explored;  and  yet,  in  the  spring  of  1840,  their  po- 
pulation exceeded  six  thousand,  and  the  value  of  the 
improvements  made  upon  their  lands,  and  of  the  live 
stock  which  they  had  acquired,  was  £242,287  ;  and  of 
this  large  amount,  it  is  worthy  of  deep  attention,  that — 

£90,486  was  acquired  by  five  hundred  and  fourteen 
families  who  had  come  into  the  settlement  altogether 
destitute. 

£10,242  by  sixty-one  fiamilies,  whose  means  were  un- 
der £10. 

£40,526  by  two  hundred  and  fifty-four  fiamilies,  whose 
means  were  under  £50.    And, 

£100,850, 17s.  9d.  was  accumulated  by  parties  whose 
means,  though  small,  were  over  that  amount,  but  still 
they  were  so  very  limited,  that  they  would  not  have 
been  equal  to  securing  for  themselves  at  home  one-fiftiet)> 
part  of  th^  i^depend^nvo  that  they  now  enjoy. 


62 


LITERARY  REGISTER, 


What  anple  enoonrageme&t  is  here  held  oai  to  the 
pwr  Iftbourer  and  small  &rmer,  who  is  struggling  at 
home  for  a  bare  subsistence,  to  emigrate  to  a  country 
where  so  much  may  be  accomplished  by  honest  industry, 
unaided  even  by  any  moneyed  capital  whatever ! 

l%e  Hand-book  of  Hydropathy  for  ProfeM$Umal  and 
l>omettio  Use  ;  letlA  an  Appendix  onthebett  mode  of 
forming  Hydropathic  EftabHahmentSy  &»,,  &c.  By  Dr. 
J.Weiss.  Octavo.  London  :  Madden  &  Co. 
Another  work  on  the  Cold-water  Cure,  and  the  bulkiest 
of  them  all.  The  author,  a  German,  practised  for  twelve 
years  at  Graffenbeig,  and  the  neighbouring  village 
of  Freywaldau  ;  and  had  the  advantage  of  a  previous 
regular  medical  education.  We  believe  he  was  invited 
over  to  England  to  superintend  the  Hydropathic  estab- 
lishment at  StansheadyBury  House,  Hertfordshire.  As 
we  eonceive  that  we  fully  did  our  duty  by  the  Cold- 
vrater  Cure  long  ago,  in  making  its  principle  and  practice 
generally  known,  we  need  only  say,  that  the  present 
work  is  merely  an  expansion  of  the  selected  papers  and 
treatises  published  by  Captain  Qaridge  ;  though  Dr. 
Weiss  is  by  no  means  so  dogmatic  as  some  of  the  amor 
teur  Hydropathists,  whom  he  indeed  condemns  for  igno- 
rance and  presumption.  He  expresses  great  doubts  as 
to  some  of  the  marvellous  and  rapid  cures  effected  by 
cold  water  ;  though  placing  full  reliance  upon  the  treat- 
ment in  the  great  majority  of  diseases,  if  it  is  properly 
regulated.  He  has  no  faith,  however,  in  pneumonia 
being  cured  in  six,  eight,  or  at  most  twenty-four  hours ; 
or  in  the  like  miracles  of  children  being  cured  of  scarlet 
fever,  and  walking  about  in  their  wet  bandages  on  the 
third  day.  We  think  we  have  heard  of  them  being 
abroad  on  the  second  day ;  but  Priessnitz  is  not  for  this 
accused  of  dishonourable  motives  in  countenancing  such 
tales,  though  he  is  charged  with  total  unacquaintance 
with  scientific  nomenclature, — ^with,  infact,mistakingone 
disease  for  another,  from  ignorance  of  pathology.  The 
treatise  of  Dr.  Weiss  vnll,  we  think,  be  useful  to  ama- 
teurs even  more  than  to  proffessional  hydropathists  ;  as  it 
may  temper  their  zeal  with  a  little  knowledge  and  dis- 
cretion. 

Experimental  Hesearehes,  Chemical  and  Agricultural, 
thowing  Carbon  to  be  a  Compound Borfy,  made  by  Plante, 
and  decomposed  by  Putrefaction,  By  Robert  Rigg, 
F.R.S.    12mo.     London :  Smith,  Elder,  &  Co. 

We  do  not  pretend  to  give  any  opinion  whatever 
upon  these  Experimental  Researches  :  and  we  are  well 
aware  that,  in  the  present  excited  state  of  the  practical 
agriculturalists,  they  are  likely  to  be  thoroughly  sifted 
and  tested.  But  we  think  that  the  experimenter^in  his 
Introduction,  lays  down  true,  and  indeed  the  only  true, 
principles  of  scientifio  investigation  and  experiment ; 
which  he  attacks  Professor  Liebeg,  whether  justly  or  not, 
for  disregarding.  The  volume  is  occupied  solely  by  minute 
details  of  the  experiments  by  which  Mr.  Rigg  supports 
his  theory. 

Selections  from  the  Kur-an,  commonly  called  in  England 
the  Koran,  «•  ft*  an  inUrtDoven  Commentary ;  translated 
fromthe  Arabic.  Methodically  arranged,  and  illustnMted 
by  notes,  chiefly  from  Sales*  edition,  ^e,,^c.  By  Ed- 
ward William  Lane,  author  of  ^  The  Manners  and 
Customs  of  the  Modem  Egyptians.**  Octavo,  pp.  315. 
London :  Madden. 

Besides  the  particulars  set  forth  in  the  above  title, 
this  work  contains  an  essential  preliminary  in  an  lutro- 
duetion  taken  from  Sale's  OKplanatory  discourse.    The 


saoted  books  of  religionists  so  numerous  as  are  the 
Mahommedans  of  diiferent  nations,  and  so  &r  advanced 
in  civilisation,  before  the  Chinese  and  Hindoos,  as  to 
rank  next  to  the  Christian  world,  must  be  a  subjectof  great 
curiosity  and  interest ;  and  one  too  of  some  importance 
to  the  liberal  inquirer,  as  well  as  to  the  theologian.  These 
selections,  made  by  an  author  not  alone  fsmiliar  as  a 
sohokr  with  the  faith  of  Mahomet,  but  vrith  the  char* 
acter  and  usages  of  Mussulmans,  is  therefore  a  work  that 
was  required  to  supply  a  want  generally  felt.  The  prin- 
ciple on  which  Mr.  Lane  has  selected,  leads  him  to 
choose  what  is  the  most  worthy  of  admiration  in  the 
pretended  revelations  of  the  Prophet,  and  so  to  pass  over 
the  grossest  of  the  absurdities  of  the  Koran. 
Voyages  Bound  the  World,  from  the  Death  of  Captain 

Cook  to  the  present  time.    Pp.448,   Edinburgh :  Oliver 

&Boyd. 

This  volume  forms  the  thirty-fourth  of  The  EDUiBineB 
Cabinet  Libbaby  ;  and  concludes,  we  imagine,  thai 
epitome  of  all  the  memorable  Voyages  of  Discovery  that 
have  ever  been  undertaken  from  the  circumnavigation  of 
Magellan  to  the  latest  recorded,  which  renders  a  selec* 
tion  of  some  ten  or  twelve  volumes  of  this  interesting 
series  a  complete  collection  of  the  most  celebrated  voy- 
ages ;  a  Navigator's  Library.  The  present  volume,  as 
its  title  specifies,  is  limited  to  the  cironmnavigations 
that  have  been  undertaken  since  the  death  of  Cook,  by 
the  maritime  enterprise  of  different  nations.  Since,  the 
stimulus  given  to  the  prosecution  of  discoveiy  by  the 
splendid  success  of  Cook,  and  particularly  in  the  piesent 
century,  England,  France,  and  Russia,  have  vied  ifith 
each  other  in  maritime  enterprise.  There  is  thus  a  rich 
and,  indeed,  an  ovenHielming  accumulation  of  mate- 
rials, for  compilations,  of  the  kind  before  ub;  and  this  one 
contains  the  highly  condensed  essence  of  many  voIubob 
of  voyages,  and  of  tiie  stores  of  seientilo  informatioa 
collected  in  their  progress.  In  studying  oompressioBi 
the  compiler  has  not  sacrificed  the  deamess  and  com- 
pleteness of  the  narrative. The  striking  feature  of  the 

work  is  the  multitude  of  its  varied  facts  oonceming  so 
many  regions  and  tribes,  of  which,  until  a  period  com- 
paratively recent,  Europe  knew  little  or  nothing.  The 
volume  is  printed  with  the^ame  neatness  and  care  which 
distinguishes  the  previous  divisions  of  The  Edinburgh 
Cabinet  Library,  and  will  form  a  valuable  addition  to  it. 
Picoiola* 

This  is  an  Edinburgh  edition  of  Samtine's  eelebrated 
volume,  revised  and  abridged  by  a  French  gentleman.  It 
is  intended  to  form  at  once  a  useM  lesson-book  to  the 
young  student  of  the  French  language;  and  a  work 
which  may  instruct  the  aund,  and  exereise  the  reasoBing 
faculties. 

HinU  Towards  the  Formation  of  Character,  ftith  reference 
ehiefiy  to  the  Social  Duties.     By  a  plain-spoken  Eng- 
lishwoman.   12mo,pp.830.   Simpkin,Mar8haU,&Co. 
We  have  here  a  series  of  sensible,  well-reasoned,  and 
well-expressed  brief  Essays  upon  the  most  important 
of  the  pursuits  and  ends  of  life,  and  on  the  best  kind  of 
preparation  for  entering  upon  them.    The  plain-spoken 
Englishwoman  has  made  herself  thoroughly  acquainted 
with  the  writings  of  the  best  authors  upon  that  educa- 
tion which  forms  men  and  women  for  the  duties  of  life, 
and  for  the  enjoyment  of  happiness  here  and  hereafter. 
Her  book  is  distinguished  by  rational  and  cheerful  piety, 
and  by  that  tone  of  sober  good  sense  which  is  quite  com- 
patible with  genuine  refinement  of  mind  and  manners. 


UTERARY  REGISTER. 


68 


h  mty  be  stedied  wilh  peenlSar  adTantage  by  all  who 
km  the  eare  of  the  young,  and  particnlarly  of  girls ;  and 
Also  by  Umbo  young  women  who  would  learn  what  eon- 
ctitBtes  the  glory,  and  beet  Beeures  the  happiness  of  their 
ttx  and  of  the  IndiTidnaL 

Tke  Grate  of  Genius;  a  Tale,  True  yet  Marrellout.  By 
J.  0.  La  Mont. 

Another  edition  this,  of  a  very  old  tale:  that  of  a  youth 
of  genius  who,  wanting  eyery  thing  like  useful  working 
tbility  and  experience  of  life,  repairs  to  London  as  an 
aspinnt  for  literary  fame  and  daily  bread,  and  sinks 
under  the  hopeless  struggle.    It  is  prettily  told  enough ; 
bot  Teiy  useless,  we  fear,  as  a  lesson. 
A  Manual  of  Greek  Prosody,    By  the  Rev.  Lewis  Page 
Mercier,  BA.,  Second  Master  of  the  Glasgow  Colle- 
giate School,  and  late  of  Oxford,  &o.    Written  for  the 
use  of  the  Senior  Oasses  of  the  Ck>Uegiate  School. 
Glasgow :  Smith  &  Son. 

A  TnaUte  on  Attrommfff  displaying  ike  ArHkmeiieal 
JrdiiUeture  •f  tke  Bolar  System,  By  £.  Henderson, 
LLD.,  F.ILS.  Second  fiditioii,  enlazged.  London  : 
Gsiau 

NEW  NOVELS. 
TheLttsrnngtons  ;  or,  Superior  People,    By  Mrs.  Trol- 

kf$,   3  Tolnmes.   Longman  &  Co. 

Se  derer  and  observant  a  fietionist  as  Mn.  TroUope, 
is  not  likely  to  produee  any  other  than  an  entertaining 
and  readable  book,  whatever  humour  she  chooses  to  illus- 
tnte,  or  whatever  claae  of  society  to  describe  or  drama- 
tize. Still,  we  cannot  think  that  she  has  been  eminently 
saoceasfol  in  7%e  Laurrinytons,  The  idea,  or  what,  in 
tbi  days  of  Ben  Johnson,  would  have  been  called  the 
Hmsourf  embodied  in  the  family  group  of  superior  people 
is  exceedingly  amneing;  but  it  will  not  bear  to  be  drawn 
oat  through  three  volumes.  "  The  Laurringtons  "  will 
remind  the  reader  a  good  deal  of  Mrs.  Trollope's  mas- 
terpieee,^  <<  Widow  Bamaby ;"  hut  without  the  broadly 
comic  scenes,  the  amusement  afforded  by  the  brazen 
audacity  of  that  matchless  Widow,  or  the  general  truth 
of  colouring,  and  the  relief.  There  is  here,  as  in  the 
Widow,  a  gentle  heroine;  and  a  truly  noble  hero^half 
German  though  he  be;  and  again,  a  little  old  maiden,  the 
gurdian  genius  of  the  lovers,  the  true,  benevolent 
Fairy  of  the  romance.  Miss  Charlotte  Masterman, 
whose  weak  woman's  artifice  does  indeed  "Master  man,** 
is,  if  possible,  more  detestable  than  *  The  Bamaby,*'  and 
her  fortune-hunting  not  half  so  entertaining.  She  is  a 
penniless  young  lady  of  noble  connexions  and  high 
ftshka,  without  one  virtue  or  sterling  quality  to  re- 
deem her  utter  worthlessness.  It  has  fallen  to  the 
»ijare  ef  Mrs.  TroUope,  whether  by  design  or  accident,  to 
pwsent  the  world  with  specimens  of  aristocracy  more 
**oas  than  any  that  ever  a  Radical's  imagination 
warned  of.  Her  late  works  are  indeed  powerful,  if 
i>£rect,  arguments  ibr  the  abolition  of  the  law  of  primo- 
giaitnTe.  How  thoroughly  unprincipled,  and  in  every 
wiy  beutless,  an  her  poor  and  profligate  younger  bro- 
tlMS  and  portionless  daughters  of  fashion;  left  to  shift 
^  tbettseSves  by  arts  and  villanies  considerably  viler 
*bsn  0^  BwindHng  or  high-way  robbery. 

Cai^Stvkdy,    3  volumes.    Blackwood  &  Sons. 
Little  need  be  said  of  a  work  which  appeared  piece- 
mtral  in  BUtckvood's  Magazitw,  and  is  only  concluded  the 
ovhcr  day.    We  consider  it  a  pity  that  a  writer,  with 


very  good  talents  for  painting  lifls  ftnd  mannen,  diould 
deem  it  necessary,  in  order  to  be  strrmy  or  tateiis^,  to 
mistake  the  legitimate  end  of  fiction,  and  be  so  very  often 
painful  and  disagreeable.  There  are,  certainly,  some 
powerful  soenes  in  the  novel ;  but  the  impression  left  by 
it,  as  a  whole,  is  anything  rather  than  pleasing  or  health- 
ful.   

JUVENILE  BOOKS. 

The  Recrbation.  Foubtr  Volvmb  of  thb  Anhual 
Sbries.  Edinburgh  :  Menzies.~-This  is  a  neatly  printed 
and  illnstrated  eolleetion  of  stories  and  adventures,  from 
late  books  of  travels,  voyages,  frc,  intended  te  instruct 
while  it  entertains  yonng  people ;  and  one  well  adapted 
to  that  end. 

AwECDOTES  OF  Peter  the  G&EAt,  Empbroe  of  Rva- 
siA.~By  the  author  of  a  Visit  te  My  Birth-place,  Ac- 
London  :  Grant  ft  Griffith. 

Glimpses  of  Nature,  with  iLLUSTRATioifS.  By  Vbs, 
Loudon.  London  :  Grant  &  Griffith. — This  is  an  account 
of  an  excursion  to  the  Isle  of  Wight,  made  by  a  papa  and 
mamma,  and  their  little  lively  and  intelligent  daughter, 
Agnes  Merton.  Of  course,  Agnes  saw  many  things  that 
were  new  and  strange,  and  asked  her  mother  many 
pertinent  questions  ;  to  which  that  lady  replied  in  the 
kindest  and  most  satisfactory  way ;  and  thus  pleasant 
if  not  very  profound  dialogues  pass  between  them,  gen- 
erally on  subjects  of  natural  history  or  about  the  sur- 
rounding objects  and  scenery.  The  little  tone  is  very 
prettily  illustrated. 

Rhooa  ;  OR,  THB  Excelleuce  of  Charity.  By  the 
Author  of  the  Cottage  on  the  Common,  &e.  Grant  & 
Griffiths  A  nice  little  story  this,  for  very  liUle  girls  ; 
but  are  not  the  villagers,  in  all  such  cases,  grateftU  and 
adoring  overmuch  to  their  benefhetors  t 

The  Little  Magazine  of  Useful  akd  EiiTBliTAimtfG 
KifowLEDOE.  London  :  Gilbert. — A  selection  ef  pieees 
in  prose  and  verse  for  the  use  of  young  persons,  and  eon- 
taiuing  many  good  things. 

Sketches  of  Nature;  comprising  Views  of  Zoology, 
Botany,  and  Geology,  Illustrated  by  original  poetry. 
By  Julia  Lucretia  Guinnes.  London :  Hamilton,  Adams, 
&  Co. — This  is  a  very  neatly  printed,  embellished,  and 
altogether  pretty  hook,  about  birds  and  flowers,  and  all 
manner  of  delightful  things  ;  and  one  which  we  consider 
peculiarly  adapted  to  attract  and  improve  yonng  persons, 
both  from  the  choice  and  the  variety  of  the  subjects,  and 
the  elegance  and  accuracy  of  the  authorship. 

SERIAL  WORKS. 
Murray's  Colonial  and  Home  Library.  Nos.  I.  and 
II. — Borrow's  Bible  in  Spain. — The  first-fruits  of  this 
new  enterprise  in  publishing  is,  that  a  fresh  work,  which 
sells  at  a  high  price,  and  which  must  remain  in  copyright 
till  the  present  generation  has  passed  away,  appears  at  the 
cost  of  five  shillings.  It  is  moreover  printed  on  a  good 
paper,  in  a  very  clear  legible  type  ;  and  if  not  an  ele- 
gant, is  a  neat  enough  book.  The  Colonial  Library  is 
intended  to  meet  that  change  in  the  principle  of  publica- 
tion which  is  expected  to  follow  tie  late  alteration  of  the 
law  of  copyright.  Other  publishers  will  follow  in  the  train 
of  Mr.  Murray  ;  though  it  is  yet  difficult  to  say  how  the 
thing  will  work,  as  the  men  in  the  log-cabins  of  Canada, 
and  in  the  Bush  of  Australia,  have  got  that  bad  custom  of 
buying  the  low-priced  ugly  American  reprints  and  edi- 
Hions,  which  will  not  be  ea.-ily  overcome. 


64 


,  LITERARY  REGISTER. 


The  British  Minstrel.  Parts  6,  7, 8, 9, 10.  Glasgow: 
William  Hamilton.— This  is  an  interesting  and  oheap 
masical  work,  which  displays  both  good  taste  and  careful 
selection.  It  does  not  aspire  to  greater  originality.  We 
propose  to  give  an  account  of  it  at  a  more  conTcnient  sea- 
son; as  it  concerns  a  class  of  readers  interesting  to  our 
associations — young  persons  whose  loYe  of  ballad-mi^ic, 
songs,  and  musical  literature,  is  much  stronger  than  their 
purses. 

The  Illustrated  Edition  op  the  Works  of  Burns. 
Paris  7, 8,  9, 10.  Glasgow :  Blackie  &  Son.--In  tliese 
Parts,  Professor  Wilson's  manly  and  generous  estimate 
of  the  character  and  genius  of  Bums  is  brought  to  a 
conclusion.  How  he  does  iquabcuh  that  cold  and  sneak- 
ing precisian,  Josiah  Walker !  It  is  dangerous  for  me- 
diocre men  to  intermeddle  with  the  sons  of  genius : 
for  as  sure  as  th^re  is  a  fountain  of  love  and  reyerenoe 
in  the  heart  of  man,  Grenius  will  one  day  or.other  re- 
venge them.  The  Life  of  Bums,  by  Dr.  Gurrie,  also  ap- 
pears in  the  Parts  on  our  table ;  with  the  noble  character 
of  Bums  by  Cariyle  from  The  Edinburgh  Review,  and  va- 
rious other  tributes  to  the  poet*s  memory,  both  in  prose 
and  verse.  The  portraits  are  the  Earl  of  Glencaira ;  Miss 
Euphemia  Murray,  the  heroine  of  the  song,  **  Blythe  wu 
she ;"  Mr.  Smellie,  the  philosopher  and  printer  of  Edin- 
burgh ;  and  Mr.  George  Thomson.  The  landscape  and 
scenic  illustrations  are  numerous ;  some  of  them  rich, 
and  all  of  them  pretty. 

Old  England,  a  Pictorial  Museum  of  Regal,  Ecclesi- 
astical, Baronial,  Municipal,  and  Popular  Antiquities. 
By  Charles  Knight.  Part  I. — This  Museum  consists  of 
architeotmal  and  scenic  plates,  fee-similes  of  all  kinds 
of  weapons,  costumes,  coins,  &c.,  whatever,  in  short,  may 
illustrate  the  PcuL  The  engravings  are  on  wood,  in  the 
style  of  those  of  the  Pictorial  Histories  and  Penny  Maga- 
zines ;  rade,  or  more  correctly,  nnfinished,  but  spirited. 
This  Part  has,  as  a  frontispiece,  what  is  called  an  illumi- 
nated engraving;  the  subject  being  the  Coronation  Chair. 
It  is  done  by  one  of  those  new  and  favourite  processes  of 
the  day,  by  which  an  imitation  of  rare  and  costly  things 
is  obtained  at  small  expense.  We  begin  to  think  that 
the  Past— "hoar  antiquity  "  and  the  wisdom  of  our  an- 
cestors, are  looming  rather  large  through  modem  publica- 
tions; that  they  interfere  too  much  with  the  necessities  of 
the  Present,  and  obscure  the  prospects  of  the  Future. 
These  things  may  be  a  pretty  amusement  enough  for 
ianocent  grown-up  idlers;  though  they  are,  in  this  cheap 
guise,  after  all,  often  but  the  mbbish  of  Art,  and  the 
lumber  of  memory. 

Scenery  and  Antiquities  op  Ireland.  Parts  XXIX. 
XXX. — This  work  is  ended;  and,  to  say  the  tmth,  it  wa« 
about  time.    The  plates  have  generally  been  good,  and 
often  fine  ;  but  there  must,  of  necessity,  have  been  a  de- 
gree of  sameness  or  monotony  in  them,  since  life  was 
wanting.     The  artists  have,  however,  done  their  duty 
better  than  the  undertaker-general  for  the  letter-press, 
Mr.  N.  P.  Willis.    But  Mr.  Willis,  we  now  learn  for  the 
first  time,  had  an  auxiliary  in  helping  him  to  do  very 
little  ;  and  part  of  the  blame  of  the  meagre  notices  may 
rest  with  that  gentleman, — if,  on  the  contrary,  as  we  sus- 
pect, the  sole  merit  does  not  belong  to  him  of  anything 
like  research  or  original  observation  that  is  to  be  found 
in  the  letter-press  descriptions.    The  work,  with  all  this, 
is  an  elegant  one,  and  not  of  the  ephemeral  character 
or  flimsy  structure  of  many  of  the  illus>trated  books ; 
si  180  Irdtiiid  is  a  lasting  subject. 


Horsb-Shok  Nails.  No.  5.— Minor  Hugo  here  proposes 
to  abolish  washing-day,  with  its  disagreeable  conoomi- 
tants;  aU  over  the  world ;  and  to  have,  in  defiance  of 
the  maxim  of  Napoleon,  aU  the  dirty  linen  of  society 
cleaned  in  Phalanterys,  or  by  joint-stock  or  cooperative 
washing  companies ;  which  are,  in  every  locality,  to 
supersede  the  stated  plague.  To  this  extent,  we  dare- 
say,  Minor  Hugo  might  obtain  nearly  the  universal  suf- 
frage of  mankind.  But  womankind  is  quite  another 
consideration.  Those  who  annihilate  the  notable  honse- 
wife's  washing-day,  take  away  half  her  life. 

Cumming's  Foxe*s  Book  of  Martyrs.  Parts  XXVIII., 
XXIX.— One  of  these  Parts  is  embellished  by  a  capital 
architectural  plate  ;  a  view  of  the  West  Bow  Head  of 
Edinburgh,  the  way  by  which  the  Scottish  Martyrs  were 
led  to  the  scafTold  in  the  Grassmarket.  The  History  is 
brought  down  to  the  last  appearance  of  Latimer. 

Chambers's  Cyclopjbdia  op  English  Literatube.— 
Part  XII.  goes  firom  Armstrong  to  Crawford  inclusiTe  j 
and  contains  many  apt  and  elegant  extracts. 

Captain  Knox's  Harry  Mowbray.    Part  XI. 

The  Miller  op  Deanhaugh.    Parts  VIII.,  IX. 

A  Series  of  Compositions  from  the  Liturgy.  Part 
IL 


PAMPHLETS  AND  TRACTS,  &c. 
Gutch's  Literary  and  Scientific  Almanack.— A 
hodge-podge  of  useful  information.  Surely  we  have  far  too 
many  Almanacs,  to  admit  of  many  really  good  and  use- 
ful ones. 

Connell's  Isle  op  Man  Almanac. 
Glenny's  Gardener's  Almanac  for  1844. 
A  Visit  to  the  Wild  West  ;  or,  a  Sketch  op  the 
Emerald  Isle  during  the  Past  Autumn.    By  an  Eng- 
lish Traveller. 

Lettre  k  Monsieur  de  la  Martine  ;  snivie  de  la 
Reponse  de  Monsieur  de  la  Martine,  et  de  celle  de 
Messieurs  de  Genoude  et  De  Lafonet,  sur  le  meme 
sujet.— The  sujet  is  politics— Xi6eraZ  politics.  The  Le- 
gitimists are  not  the  only  party  in  France  at  present  ia 
a  state  of  fermentation. 

Remarks  on  the  Light-house  System  op  Great  Bri- 
tain.   By  John  Baldry  Redman. 

The  Cold-water  Cure.  By  Edwin  Lee,  Esq.— This 
pamphlet  is  meant  to  counteract  the  partial  or  one-sided 
views  given  of  the  cures  performed  at  Graffenberg,  by 
grateful  patients  on  their  return  home ;  and  also  to 
rescue  what  is  really  good  in  hydropathy  from  the  de- 
preciating attacks  of  some  of  the  medical  profession. 

Ireland  Before  and  After  the  Union  with  Great 
Britain.  By  Montgomery  Martin,  Esq. — The  best  thing 
in  this  pamphlet  is  the  query  with  which  it  concludes  : 
"  Would  those  who  now  contend  for  a  repeal  of  tlie  Le- 
gislative Union  between  the  two  Islands  agree  to  a  re- 
storation of  the  state  in  which  Ireland  was  previous  to 
the  Union  1"  That  they  would  not  I  They  have  one 
and  all  more  sense  and  patriotism. 

Dialogues  Metaphysical  and  Practicai..  By  James 
Forest,  A.M.  Dialogue  First,  between  Space  and  Time, 
Mind  and  Matter. — An  ingenious  attempt  to  foroe  people 
on  the  discussion  of  metaphysical  qoeatioiiSy  somewhat 
as  little  children  are  taught  or  checUed  into  the  elements 
of  science  by  catechisms.  Time  and  Space  talk  in  so 
lively  and  engaging  a  manner,  that  wc  shall  be  curiou:> 
I  to  hear  what  Mind  and  Matter  shall  have  ^ot  to  sav. 


LITERARY  REGISTER, 


65 


FuowBss  AND  Fruit.  B/  James  Elmalie  Duncan. — 
A  small  collection  of  easajs,  sketcliesy  and  Tersea  ;  with, 
boweTer  ineongniona  it  may  seem,  a  pleading  for  the 
gmnl  adoption  of  yegetable  diet. 

Hiim  lo  Rbfsalbbs.  By  William  Johnson  Gamp- 
belL— Then  is  nothing  worthy  of  much  attention  in  this 
panpUet.  Itaanthor'sBy'tomseemaneither  adapted  to 
soothe  norto  eoxe. 

RiMA&KS  oir  Paufkrism,  in  PiiBTBmoif  and  Reubf. 
By  John  Taylor,  A.M.  Edinburgh :  Haclaehlan  & 
Stewart.  A  series  of  dissertations  on  snbjeets  con- 
nected with  pnblio  eoonomy  and  moials,  written  in  a 
philosophical  spirit. 

A  Pbopu's  Editiok  of  Dr.  Avdrbw  Combe's  Prih- 
aPLEs  or  Phtsiolqot,  apfubd  to  the  Prbsertation  of 
HRiLXH ;  BEUfo  TflB  TwRLFTH.^No  better  addition  has 
been  made  to  the  ^  Folks*  Books  "  than  Dr.  Combe's 
contribation.  It  has,  besides  the  great  reduction  in 
price,  been  rerised,  added  to,  and  improred  thronghont. 

Sbqukl  to  tbb  Bcal  MoMaiBR  Evil  of  Irblakd. — In 
lUe  sequel  Iftr.  StapleUm  gOM  OTer  his  former  ground. 


and  fkrther  derelops  the  grand  remedial  scheme,  which 
we  formerly  described. 

A  SbBIBS  of  COMFOSITIOin  FROM  THX  LiTUROT.     By 

John  Bell,  Sculptor.  No.  I.— The  artist  has  commenced 
with  compositions  illustratiTe  of  the  Lord's  Prayer. 
Tbe  drawings,  which  are  merely  ontlines,  are  free, 
flowing,  and  exprssslTe  :  we  need  not  say  that  they  are 
all  of  the  figure  of  groups  in  attitudes  of  deTotion. 

PrOCBRDINOS  of  THE  GbNXRAL  PbACR  CONTBRnON, 

HRLD  IN  LoNDOR,  IN  JuNR  1843.  Londou :  Peace  So- 
ciety's (MBce. 

A  TrBATIQR  on  PhOTOORAFBT,  CONTAININO  THB  LAST 

DisooTBRiBs,  &C.,  &c.  By  N.  P.  Lerebpurs,  Optician  to 
the  Obserratory,  Paris.  Translated  by  J.  Egerton. 
Longman  &  Co. — This  work  will  be  peonUariy  interest- 
iig,  both  to  scientific  men,  and  to  those  ingenious  persons 
— and  they  are  a  numerous  class  who,  ftrom  curiosity, 
are  tempted  to  try  experiments  in  this  beantifU  art. 
The  French  are  still  keeping  before  ns  in  these  processes ; 
and  the  work  of  Lerebours,  which  is  compiled  from 
the  communications  of  Daguerre,  CUudet,  Arago,  Ac., 
Ac.,  describes  the  latest  improTements  and  suggestions. 


POSTSCRIPT  POLITICAL. 


In  the  modem  Politician's  Calendar,  the  month  of  December  might  aptly  enough  be  termed  the  CfMeaing 
Month.  It  is  then,  4uid  up  to  the  meeting  of  Parliament,  that  all  sorts  of  rumours  and  conjectures  are  set 
sfloat ;  that  feelers  are  thrown  out  by  party  organs,  and  tubs  are  launched  to  amuse  the  whale ;  while  CTcry 
new  day  demolishes  the  lie  of  yesterday,  and  spreads  its  more  norel  fabrication.  According  to  one  late  rumour, 
the  Whigs  and  Tories  are  to  coalesce;  in  order,  we  presume,  that  a  strong  goyemment  may  show  a  bold  frMse 
to  the  country  and  the  Anti-Com-Law  League,  and  saTe  as  much  of  the  wreck  of  **  Landlords'  Protection  "  as  is 
sow  poflsihle.  Other  reports  make  the  Whigs  and  Radicals  ftutemize,  but  forget  to  say  for  what  purpose; 
Certainly  not  to  carry  a  fixed  duty  on  imported  com,  and  make  a  final  stand  upon  the  grand  Russell  prin- 
ciple of  Fmality,  Reports,  quite  as  extrayagant,  hint  at  Sir  Robert  Peel  being  about  to  become  a  Total 
Repealer!  In  the  midst  of  these  contradictory  ramours,  whether  circulated  by  the  quidnuma  of  the 
Clabs,  or  by  Editors  at  their  wit's  end  for  a  new  idea,  and  fond  of  being  imagined  in  the  secrets  of  the 
GoTemment  or  the  Opposition,  we  may  mention  a  fresh  report  that  has  more  of  noTelty  to  recommend 
it,  with  quite  as  much  probability  as  any  of  those  which  have  enlightened  or  amused  the  public  during 
the  currency  of  the  Chtemug  Month.  It  is  whispered  in  **  high  circles,"  that  it  is  understood  to  be  the  intention  of 
"  a  great  personage,"  on  the  first  hitch,  which  cannot  be  very  te  distant,  to  send  for  Earl  Spencer,  who  lately  made 
io  emphatic  a  declaration  for  Free  Trade,  and  against  JCsmI  duHa,  sliding-scales,  and  all  the  other  apparatus  of 
■umopoly.  We  do  not  see  that  the  Iotc  of  retirement,  or  any  oonsidention  of  self,  could  absolTe  Earl  Spencer  ham 
obeying  the  commands  of  his  SoTcreign  in  the  contemplated  emergency.  He  will,  no  doubt,  receiye  ample 
powers  to  form  a  broad-based  and  really  Liberal  Administration ;  fitted  to  meet  the  exigencies  of  the  times, 
and  calculated  by  ability,  integrity,  and  moral  infiuence,  to  gain  Uie  support  and  win  the  confidence  of  every 
elus  of  citizens.  It  is,  however,  belieyed  that  Earl  Spencer  will  on  no  oonsidention  accept  of  office.  But  is 
this  a  conjuncture  in  which  a  good  man,  with  the  power  to  serve  his  country,  can  conscientiously  decline  the 
responsibSlitics  of  place,  on  the  mere  plea  of  disinclination  t  Or  if  determined  against  place,  then  the  new  and 
aaonioloos  office  of  Director-General  of  the  Cabinet,  and  umpire  of  public  affkirs,  held  at  present  by  the  Duke  of 
Wellington,  may  be  vacant ;  and  it  cannot  be  more  unconstitutional  when  held  by  a  peacefhl,  sagacious,  and 
Free  Trade  Eari,  than  by  a  warlike  and  Conservative  Duke.  If  ever  there  was  a  time  when,  leaving  factious 
motiTes  and  party  interests  to  those  that  like  them  and  thrive  by  them,  enlightened  and  unanimous  councils 
sad  energetic  measures  were  required,  it  is  now  ;  and  ftt)m  what  party  Administration,  whether  represented  by 
Sir  Robert  Peel  or  by  Lord  John  Russell,  can  the  nation  rationally  hope  for  what  it  urgently  requires  t 

These  ramours  and  speculations  may  seem  idle  enough,  and  perhaps  they  are  so ;  but  not  so  the  pertinent 
question.  That  if  Sir  Robert  Peel  be  not  the  man  who  is  either  to  work  out  the  salvation  of  the  commonwealth, 
or  even  to  lend  a  helping-hand  in  finishing  what  the  League  have  all  but  accomplished  without,  or  in  spite  of  Whig 
or  Tory  help  or  opposition,  who,  then,  is  that  man!  Where  are  we  to  look  fbr  him  1  And  if  none  such  be  found 
in  the  Whig  or  Tory  ranks,  the  next  question  is— Does  the  country  possess  none  of  the  desired  material  t  Is 
there  notinteUigeBce  and  virtue  sufficient  fai  its  own  bosom  to  guide  its  eouncib  and  to  save  itself!  la  the  heart 
ofthepeopleof  Ameruftaadof  Fnnce,  the  rolers  of  France  and  America  are  looked  fbr,and  fimad.    So^we 

you  xid— ifo.  cxxi.     __  F 


«5  POSTSCRIPT  POLITICAL. 

presume^  ii  is  expected,  to  be  u^  Ireland,  should  that  country  ever  become  an  independent  kingdom.  England 
alone,  though  nearly  all  its  science,  knowledge,  business  talent,  and  enterprise,  are  to  be  found  among  its 
middle-classes,  must  be  governed  exclusively  by  its  aristocracy;  by  Whig  and  Tory  alternatively,  as  of  heredi- 
tary right !  When  the  Queen  shall  verify  the  above  rumour  (for  which  we  do  not  vouch)  by  sending  for  Earl  Spencer 
to  aid  hex  with  his  advice  as  to  how  a  new  government  may  best  be  framed,  we  anticipate  that  **  Honest  Lord 

'  Althorpe  **  will  act  upon  the  simple  and  true  principle  of,  m  werf  case,  roeommending  the  man  best  adapted 
for  the  office  ;  that  he  will — to  illustrate  our  opinion — ^point  out  Mr.'  Rowland  Hill  for  PoBt-Master-General,  as 
infinitely  the  best  choice  that  could  be  made  ;  and  Mr.  McGregor,  Mr.  Cobden,  or  Mr.  Ovoie,  for  the  Board 
of  Trade.     Either  Mr.  Joseph  Hume  or  a  reformed  Sir  Robert  Peel  might  make  a  very  fair  C^ancdler  of  the 

*  Exchequer.  We  are  not  so  sure  of  Joseph  Sturge,  a  man  of  peace^  Bucceeding  Lord  Palmerston  and  Aberdeen 
as  Foreign  (Secretary;  but  are  next  to  certain,  that  Lord  Dunfermline  would  be  pointed  out  as  Xiord-Lieutenant 
of  Lreland.  We,  however,  merely  enunciate  the  principle  on  which  the  new  Ministry  might  be  fSonned,  and  do  not 
pretend  to  ^ter  into  details.  Nor  do  we  give  cuirency  to  these  romoura  merely  to  raise  a  foolish  langh ;  but 
in  the  fiober  assurance,  that  official  appointments  must  be  made  on  this  principle,  before  i\u^n  can  be  either 
peace  in  Ireland,  or  prosperity  in  England. 

At  the  ftet  of  a  very  different  sort  of  Gamaliel  from  Lord  Spencer,  the  young  Queen  is  said  to  have  been  in- 
doctrinated in  the  principles  of  tiie  British  GonstitutieB ;  but  now  it  is  desirable,  that  from  such  men  as  his  Lord- 
sAtip  she  should  learn  somewhat  more  than  she  ean  yet  know,  of  the  condition  and  the  wants  of  the  British 
people ;  and  that  their  influenoe  were  felt  in  hef  Councils,  although  their  presence  might  not  be  visible  there. 
It  is  quite  true,  that  no  monarch,  no  government,  can,  all  at  once,  make  a  whole  people  wise,  good,  and 
happy ;  but  every  government  has  the  power  to  remove  those  impediments  which  render  it  impossible  fbr  a 
large  proportion  of  the  people  to  emancipate  themselves  from  the  thraldom  of  ignorance,  poverty,  and  vice. 
And  the  first  aatd  great  preparatory  step,  in  the  case  of  our  own  country,  is  doing  the  people  tlie  bare  Justice  to 
unfetter  their  industry,  and  lighten  their  burdens ;  or  in  plain  words,  which  are  best, — to  prevent  the  landlords' 
and  monopolists'  grasp  from  longer  reaching  their  i>oeket8  and  their  bread-baskets. 

In  speculating  upon  ehanges  in  the  Administration,  or  of  Lord  John  Russell  taking,  for  a  time,  the  place  of 
Sir  Robert  Peel,  no  one  appears  to  get  farther  than  the  hackneyed  idea,  that,  as  a  matter  of  coarse,  the  Whigs 
must  come  in  ;  because  Sir  Robert  Peel  has  lost  the  confidence  of  the  middle-classes,  and  is  distrusted  and  de- 
serted^ by  the  High  Tories.  No  one  seems  to  believe  the  Premier  possessed  of  that  moral  courage,  of  that  confi- 
dence in  himself,  and  that  strei^h  of  purpose  which^by  arousing  the  enthusiasm  of  the  country,  might  make  the 
day  of  his  apparent  defeat  the  birth-hour  of  his  ultimate  triumph.  And  yet  so  timid  is  dishonesty,  that  some  of  the 
Whigs  seem  in  trepidation  lest  the  mancouvring  Sir  Robert  should  once  more  forestall  them,  by  all  at  once  giving 
effect  to  his  ''abstract  principles.''  However  this  may  be,  Sir  Robert  will  assuredly  not  stoop  to  pick  up  the 
abortive  Whig  ^  fixed  duty."  That  is  now  repudiated  by  everybody  but  Whigs.  They  need  not  be  alarmed 
for  Sir  Robert's  manoeuvres  here. 

In  the  possible  or  probable  accession  of  the  Whigs  to  office,  upon  the  certainly  not-improbable  dovmfall  of  Peel 
^too  wise  and  conscientious  to  be  a  mere  Tory  tool,  and,  perhaps,  too  prejudiced  and  timid  to  become  a  Liberal 
even  on  merely  fiscal  questions — we  do  not  see,  as  many  seem  to  do,  a  merely  simple  and  natural  sequence 
of  events  ;  but,  oa  the  contrary,  one  to  be  jealously  watched  and  strictly  scrutinized.  With  what  new 
claim  do  the  Whigs  propose,  themselves  for  office !  Have  they  changed  either  their  faith  or  practice  since 
1841 1  Were  they^  not  less  Reformers  in  that  year  than  in  1836 1  Then  we  had  a  section  of  them,  headed  by 
Lord  Durham,  patronizing,  at  the  least.  Household  Suffirage,  or  a  Five  Pound  Qualification.  Since  that  period, 
every  zeourring  election  has  more  forcibly  demonstrated  the  defects  of  the  Reform  Bill ;  originally  a  very 
imperfect  machine,  and  one  requiring  constant  cobbling  in  all  its  parts.  But  the  more  of  feebleness  and 
inaptitude  that  was  discovered  in  its  rickety  frame,  the  more  dear  has  it  become  to  its  doating  parent.  Lord 
John  RusselL  In  the  meanwhile  the  Whigs  have  retrograded  so  far,  that  Lord  Durham's  plan  is  wholly  for- 
gotten ;  and  now  we  have  only  Chartists,  Complete  Suffrage  Liberals,  (both  Total  Repealers,)  and  Finality 
Whigs  with  the  party  badge  of  a  fixed  duty.  Now,  we  ask.  Could  the  accession  of  this  last  party  to  power  do 
uiy thing  but  damage  the  cause  of  Free  Trade,  and  of  farther  Reform  in  the  Representation  1  Should  the  Whigs  be 
suffered  to  shuffle  into  place,  in  virtue  of  party  prestige,  the  same  men  that  they  went  out,  followed  by  the 
regret  of  no  man  save  their  own  host  of  retainers  and  expectantsi  If  Sir  Robert  Peel  vnll  do  nothing,  while  he 
in  ^eot  confesses  that  he  knows  mu<^  is  wanted  which  he  is  in  theory  inclined  to  approve,  let  him 
depart  1  But  what  is  Lord  John  Russell  to  do !  What  great  measure  does  he  propose,  and  what  aie 
his  powers  to  carry  it  I  Any  truly  great  measure  which  an  honest  and  able  government  might  bring  for- 
ward, would,  in  fact,  carry  itself  in  its  own  strength.  But  dare  we  look  for  such  a  measure  from 
the  Whigs?  Although  we  would  purchase  even  the  temporary  tranquillity  of  Ireland  at  almost  any 
price,  we  would  not,  though  the  Whigs  could  ensure  us  this — ^which  they  cannot — see  them  glide  back  into 
office,  taking  advantage  of  a  distressing  emergency,  but  unpledged  to  any  one  good  measure.  Ireland, 
Earl  Spencer  ma>y  safely  tell  her  Majesty,  is  not  only  the  *^  chief  difficulty  "  of  Sir  Robert  Peel,  but  most 
long  remain  the  chief  difficulty  of  every  British  cabinet ;  Radical — if  such  should  occur — as  well  as  Whig 
or  Tory.  The  Abolition  of  the  Com  Laws  no  longer,  comparatively,  presents  any  great  difficulty.  Abolish 
them  at  onoe,and  the  good  will  soon  become  apparent;  and  things  adjust  themselves  in  the  natural  order. 
Am  £itQnsion  of  the  Suffinige  presents  no  great  difficulty.  Carry  the  measure,  and  you  remove  a  fruitfhl  and 
inleraiin^lo  oftuse  of  disoontent,  and  ensure  a  future  good.    But  the  Etrangely-complicated  and  inveteratf 


POSTSCRIPT  POLlTlCAk  C7 

diEeue,  which  has  eaten  into  the  heart's  core  of  Ireland,  has  had  manifold  causes,  and  will  submit  to  no  simple 
or  short  process  of  care,  whoever  be  the  State  doctors.  And  let  us  not  forget,  that  every  argument  for  a  govern- 
ment of  Whigs — ^whom  O'Connell  very  sincerely  despises — ought  to  be  tenfold  more  strong  for  a  government  of 
Liberals ;  of  Radicals^  with  whom  the  Irish  leaders  affect  to  sympathize,  and  upon  whom  they  could  relj  for 

something  better  than  Coercion  Bills,  and  an  Army  of  Occupation. But  Earl  Spencer  and  Lord  Dunfermline 

will  be  sent  for.  This  ought  to  be  no  joke;  and  Mr.  Grote,  and  Mr.  Cobden,  and  Mr.  Rowland  Hill  will  follow. 
If  the  Whigs  retrograded  from  1834,  until  they  took  post  on  Finality ^  and  only  crept  on,  when  driven,  to  a 
fud  duiffy  the  country  has  advanced  by  great  strides,  both  on  the  question  of  Free  Trade  and  Extension  of 
the  Suffrage;  and  it  now  demands, — ^What  token  has  Lord  John  Russell  given — ^we  take  him  as  the  representative 
of  his  party — thai  he  is  less  wedded  to  his  idols,  landlords'  protection  and  aristocratio  influence  in  Parliament, 
than  before  t  He  had  the  honesty,  whatever  may  be  thought  of  the  modesty,  to  confess  that  his  Reform  Bill 
was  contrived  to  increase  the  influence  of  the  lords  of  the  soil  in  the  House  of  the  People;  which,  industry,  and 
the  extension  and  wealth  of  the  commercial  and  manufacturing  interests,  were  gradually  undermining. 

From  the  Whigs,  were  their  reappearance  likely,  vre  are  entitled  to  something  more  than  the  Total  Repeal  of  the 

Com  Laws,  which  they  seem  so  reluctant  to  concede,  or  than  the  old  soothing-system, — the  dosing  with  opiates — if 

not  Gsereion  Bflle,  for  Inland.    We  ahall  not  now  be  greatly  OTecbnrdened  with  gratitude  to  any  party  in  p<ywer 

that  nay  eoneede  tlw  Total  Repeal  of  the  Com  Laws*  The  League,  backed  by  the  intelligenee,  and  may  we  not  now 

say  the  enthnsiasm  of  the  eleetoral  body  and  the  people,  have  virtnaUy  carried  that  abeady.    The  formers,  the 

lint  to  suflSnr  and  the  last  to  be  oonvinoed,  are  awakening  at  last  from  a  long  dream  of  delusion.    Now  we  should 

grieve  to  aea  the  harvest  aown  in  eare  and  pain  by  Cobden  and  Bright  and  their  associates,  reaped  by  any 

othtf  tiuua  ihe  legitimate  inheritoia— the  People  ;  or  its  seeds  producing   nothing  better  than  office  to  a 

Piity.   The  bringing  down  the  Dagon  of  Monopoly  is  the  earnest  of  forther  advantages,  wluoh  ought  to  be 

stnanonaly  followed  np ;  and   we  must  not  be  joggled  out  of  them  by  party  falliwies.    These  Lord 

SpcBMr  is  neither  s^  to  be  deluded  by,  nor  to  employ.     He  is  a  olear-headed,  sagaoious,  moderalie  Liberal, 

vho  BBver  pretended  to  be  that  anepieiouB  character,  a  demooratio  bom-aristocrat.    He  saw  throngfa,  and 

poiated  oat,  the  pvaetical  dangers  of  the  Cbaados  Qause,  when  true  Reformers  were  deceived  by  it ;  and 

be  better  understands  the  principles  of  social  progression  than  now  to  declare  himself  a  FinaUM^    But, 

hjmg  aaide  Loid  Spenoer,  who  is,  no  donbt,  for  himself  much  more  happily  occupied  in  private  than  he  oonld 

be  in  peblic  life,  there  can  be  no  neceeaity  for  submitting  to  a  Government  of  either  incapable  or  nnvriUing  Whigs, 

or  ef  Tones,  in  the  same  predicament.  Seveii  or  eight  years  since,  it  was  a  favourite  speculation  with  Liberals, 

tacnstnet,  upon  paper,  a  Radical  Cabmet.  If  Radical  zeal  has  in  some  quarters  waxed  cold  since  that  period, 

tbe  materials  of  an  efficient  Liberal  or  Radical  Government  are  not  less  plentiful  than  then.    It  would  not  be 

difficult  to  nominate  for  every  place  in  the  Cabinet  twice  over ;  and  challenge  Europe  to  answer  if  our  men 

are  not,  feave  in  the  aocident  of  birth  and  ihmily  connexion,  by  their  knowledge,  activity,  honesty  of  purpose 

bfeadth  of  statesman-like  views,  and  practioal  bnriness  talents,  better  qualified  to  perform  the  functions  of  Govera* 

Bsnft,  than  any  adm^ustzation  of  which  we  have  had  experience.    Ay;  but  they  wonld  not  possess  the  confidence 

of  the  eoentry.    Now,  the  confidence  of  the  eountry  they  would  possess;  though  they  might  lack  the  favour  and 

endue  the  hitter  hostility  of  the  aristocraey.    To  come  to  a  more  specific  point :  there  appears,  we  haye  said  to 

be  a  dread,  in  some  quarters,  that  Sir  Robert  Peel  may  adopt  the  Whig  fixed  duty  of  eight  shillings  a-quarter 

or  perhaps  eat  bekw  the  Whigs,  down  to  five  or  six  shillings.  He  surely  cannot  be  so  simple.  He  vdll  not  abandon 

hii  IkvcNiiiteaUdittg-seale,^ which  has,  in  fkct,  abandoned  him,— merely  to  replace  it  by^  a  stale  Whig  measure 

to  wUcii  no  nan  in  hos  senses  will  longer  listen.    What,  coupled  as  it  was  with  other  measnres  having  a  right 

teadeaey,  mis^t,in  1841,  have  been  aoqniesced  in  for  a  time,  it  would  be  weakness  to  receive  now.    If  Sir  Ro* 

bert  Peel  wiahes  to  forestall  the  Whigs,  it  can  only  be  by  Mai  aJbdUioH* 

Whatever  beeomes  of  his  Tories,  the  minority  of  the  electoral  body  vrill  support  any  Minister  who,  nailing  his 
colours  to  the  mast,  declares  for  Total  Repeal.  Less  will  satisfy  no  member  of  the  League.  That  Association 
has  not,  we  wonld  hope,  in  the  opinion  of  the  nation,  performed  ite  work  so  badly,  that  it  must  all  be  done  over 
again  at  some  future  period,  in  order  to  get  rid  of  the  fermentive  dregs  of  the  iniquitous  impost,  the  eight  or  five 
Bhilling  duty.  If  the  principle  of  a  tax  on  the  people's  food,  for  the  protection,  as  it  is  called,  of  the  land- 
owners, be  recognised,  and  retained  in  any  shape,  what  shall  prevent  its  increase  !  We  have  had  half-a^ 
dozen  changes  of  sliding-scales  and  com-laws  within  the  last  thirty  years  ;  and  what  is  to  give  security  against 
other  changes  and  increase  in  the  amount  of  duty  1  What  shall  prevent  what  is  eight  shillings  this  year  from 
becoming  sixteen  shillings  in  another,  or  twenty-four  shillings  in  a  third  1  Besides,  the  effects  of  Free  Trade 
can  never  have  scope  for  development  while  any  vestige  of  duty  or  restriction  remains.  The  League  have 
not  surely,  as  we  said,  done  their  work  in  so  loose  or  slovenly  a  way,  that  it  may  be  aU  to  do  over  again  in 
another  generation.  We  are  not  afraid  of  this  ;  but  then  the  next  settlement  must  be  final.  If  Sir  Robert  Peel 
las  courage  to  be  the  minister  that  will  manfully  propose  the  only  admissible  terms  of  final  settlement 
tiere  is,  we  believe,  a  spirit  in  the  country  that  will  bear  him  out.  But  he  has  not.  It  is  mere  folly  to  look 
fcr  it.  WiU  Lord  John  RniseU  then,  sometime  between  this  and  next  Easter,  looking  to  the  triumphant 
progression  of  the  League— to  its  geometrical  progression— screw  his  courage  to  the  properpitch ;  declare,  like  Earl 
Spencer,  for  Total  Repeal  of  the  Com  Laws,  and  also  for  the  abandonment  of  the  Income  Tax;  and,  instead  of 
Fmality,  take  up  the  Suflirage  where  Lord  Purham  left  it  in  the  lurch  eight  years  since  I  This  is  surely 
not  much.  This  is  not  asking  anything  either  impracticable  or  visionary ;  but  it  is  moring  onward— and  that 
were  Whige  nerer  will  do.    Sir  Robert  Peel  has  of  late  been  fuUy  more  liberal— so  far  as  a  flourish  of  fair 


68  POSTSCRIPT  POLITICAL. 

words  at  agriettlinral  meetings  goes— than,  for  example,  Mr.  Labonchere.  Both  gentlemen  tell  tlie  farmers  in 
substance,  that  since  landlords  cannot  hope  mach  longer  to  squeeze  rack-rents  out  of  the  people,  (the  agricul- 
turists included,)  the  farmers  must  oontriTe  to  squeeie  them  out  of  the  soil ;  for  ''rents  must  be  maintained." 

We  haye  no  spirits  at  this  time  to  speak  of  Ireland.  We  anticipate  a  protracted  and  irritating  Trial ;  and,  if 
the  goTemment  has  the  rare  good  fortune  to  obtain  a  yerdict,  a  grand  stroke  of  gracionsness  and  magna- 
nimity, in  the  pardon  of,  at  least,  the  principal  culprit,  (if  he  should  erer  be  eren  sentenced:)  and  then  England 
and  Ireland  will  stand  on  no  better  terms  than  before. 


THE  LATE  MR.  SCOTT  OF  MONKLAW. 

A  gentleman  of  Rozbnrghshire,  who  giyes  ns  his  name,  and  who  is  one  of  the  grandsons  of  the  late  Mr.  Thomas 
Scott,  Monklaw,  the  uncle  of  Sir  Walter  Scott,  complains  of  an  anecdote  related  in  Mr.  Morrison's  Reminiscences  of 
Scott,  as  disparaging  to  the  memory  of  his  ancestor.  As  he  does  not,  howeyer,  seem  to  question  that  Sir  Walter  told 
the  story  exactly  as  it  is  related  in  the  Magamme,  we  eannot  see  that  there  is  mnch  ground  of  oomplaint.  The  joke 
is,  we  believe,  a  common  one  to  Fife,  Orkney,  and  perhaps  other  places— of  some  ingenious  and  musical  Laiid  be- 
guiling the  time  by  the  invention,  now  of  cot,  now  of  pig  Harmonicons ;  for  we  have  heard  of  both  instnuaents. 
The  Orkney  one,  we  think  it  was,  that  began  with  the  bass  grunt  or  trombone  of  the  old  boar  ;  and,  of  ooufse 
ascended  to  the  childish  treble  of  the  last  littered  pig.  Snndhope,  about  which  the  complainant  seems  at  a  loss,  is 
the  name  of  a  sheep-fkrm  in  Yarrow,  and  of  other  places ;  but  were  we  to  shift  the  scene  from  Monklaw  to  Snad- 

hope,  we  might  have  another  grave  complaint  lodged  against  ii^ustioe  to  some  Sundhope's  memory. Nobody 

can  have  known  much  of  Sir  Walter  Scott,  who  is  not  well  aware,  that  he  never  suffered  a  good  story  to  lose  in  the 
telling,  and  that  he  rarely  gave  the  tame  literal  edition  of  a  joke. 

As  to  the  story  of  "  Halter  for  lialter,"  we  have  no  doubt  tliat  Monklaw  was  himself,  on  this  oeoaaion,  the  losing 
jockey.  Many  a  worthy  and  grave  old  gentleman  has,  in  his  time,  been  engaged  in  ailkirs  in  which,  though  of  no  great 
turpitude,  they  might  not  think  it  edifying  to  figure  as  principals  in  the  eyes  of  the  sportive  younkers,  to  whom  it 
was  their  business  to  teach  sage  saws  of  experience.  Mr.  Scott  of  Monklaw  enjoys  posthumous  Ikme  enough  as  a 
horse-dealer,  to  bear  up  against  having  been  for  once  deceived.     We  now  insert  the  letter : — 

Sib, — In  the  December  Number  of  your  Magazine,  Bfr.  Morrison,  in  his ''  Reminiscences  of  Sir  Walter  Scott,**  re- 
lates some  anecdotes  of  Sir  Walter's  nncle,  Mr.  Thomas  Scott,  Monklaw.  These  anecdotes  are  trifling  in  themselves, 
and  unworthy  of  notice,  were  it  not  that  they  are  misapplied.  Sir  Walter  is  made  to  say, "  My  nncle  tells  of  a  most 
wonderful  bagpipe  which  he  constructed,*'  &c.  Now,  I  by  no  means  would  imply  that  Sir  Walter  Scott  never  spoke 
these  words  ;  but  I  do  unhesitatingly  assert,  that  Mr.  Scott  of  Monklaw  never  told  him  any  such  thing  as  that  ''A' 
constructed,"  &c    There  must  have  been  a  slip  of  memory. 

I  resided  at  Monklaw,  vrith  Mr.  Scott,  for  some  years  ;  and  have  heard  many  of  his  stories  and  anecdotes,  and, 
amongst  others,  **  Sundhope  and  his  cats."  Who  Snndhope  was,  I  eannot  say  ;  but  the  story  intimated,  that  be 
never  sucoessfblly  completed  his  instrument,  chiefly  Arom  the  want  of  a  sufficiently  good  bass  tom-cat,  for  a  low 
note.  Now,  this  story  was  invariably  told,  and  listened  to  as  a  joke  ;  and  so  far  f^m  being  related  as  personal  to 
Mr.  Scott  himself,  was  never,  so  far  as  I  am  aware,  stated  to  have  any  connexion  with  facts.  When  Mr.  Morrison 
says,*' On  this  singular  instrument,  Monklaw  affirmed  he  could  play  several  slow  tunes,"  he  may  well  add— **  but  I 
never  heard  his  performance." 

I  have  heard  the  story  of  **  Halter  for  halter ;"  but  never  heard  Mr.  Scott  speak  as  if  he  had  any  concern  with 
the  affiur  of  the  blind  horse. 

I  am  your  obedient  Servant, 

One  of  Me.  Scon's  Gbahdsons. 


Printed  by  William  Tait,  107,  Ptince's  Street,  Edinburgh. 


TAIT'S 
EDINBURGH  MAGAZINE. 


FEBRUARY,  1844. 


BLANKS  AND  PRIZES;  OR,  THE  WHEEL  OF  FORTUNE. 

A  TALE.    BY  MKS.  OORE.—f  C<mt%nued  from  page  11  ofoutJamaryNnfnhft,) 


TART  111. 

(He  of  the  wisest  of  the  ancients  asserted,  on  his 

rekue  irom  bondage,  that  it  was  worth  while  to 

HftTe  rabmitted  to  the  ignominy  of  fetters,  in  order 

to  CDJojrfthe  delicious  itching  of  the  skin  produced 

hj  ibat  removal.    And  it  is  almost  equally  worth 

yrhik  to  have  long  languished  under  the  pressure 

of  difficulties,  to  experience  the  joy  of  sudden  re- 

ieise ;  aboTe  all,  the  joy  of  seeing  tears  wiped  from 

off  the  faces  dearest  to  us  on  earth,-— of  knowing 

that  tkeir  miseries  are  over,  that  the  path  before 

them  is  one  of  plenteonaness  and  peace ! 

Captain  Erskine's  heart  ached  again  with  its 
oonsdonsness  of  joy,  as  he  took  his  final  departure 
from  the  town,  the  scene  of  all  his  earthly  happi- 
ness, yet  of  such  poignant  anguish;  and  the  advan- 
tages of  the  unlooked-for  benefit  conferred  upon 
him  were  doubled,  in  his  eyes,  by  the  necessity  it 
conveyed  of  quitting  a  spot  so  replete  with  painful 
associations.  His  latter  days  at  Apston  had  been 
dars  of  pain  and  terror ;  hb  nights,  of  sleeplessness 
and  de^ir.  The  almost  bare  walls  of  his  wretched 
home  had  witnessed  the  toils  and  tears  of  his  wife ; 
and  on  his  own  part^  an  agony  '*  too  deep  for  tears," 
even  the  apprehension  of  seeing  those  loved  and 
lovely  ones  want  bread. 

Bat  why  revert  to  all  this  ?  It  was  over !  His 
penance  was  ended!  God  had  looked  upon  the 
fniH  of  his  and  Mai^garet's  probation,  and  seen 
that  it  was  good ! 

Aheady,  though  Alie  secret  had  not  transpired 
ifi  Apston,  he  had  been  up  to  town ;  had  seen  his 
friend  Lord  Baltimore,  and  effected  such  arrange- 
ments as  would  enable  his  family  to  take  posses- 
am  of  their  new  apartments,  immediately  on  their 
(mral ;  a  pleasant  suite  of  rooms,  overlookiQg  the 
W,  joyous,  life-Kke  Thames,  and  retaining  a 
nificient  portion  of  furniture,  taken  at  a  valuation 
^  bis  predecessor.  For  Lord  Baltimore  acted  to- 
virdt  him  aa  a  brother  ;  and  experienced  genuine 
«tic(aetion  at  seeing  the  little  family  safely  and 
Uppily  installed  in  their  new  abode. 

It  was  only  when  Erskine  adverted  to  his  eagerr 
BCBiU)  acquaint  himself  with  the  duties  of  hb  new 
<^ffioe,  and  to  be  presented  to  his  new  patron,  that 
tliehfowof  hb  friend  became  a  little  oveitlottded, 

'OU  XI,— JIX  c.XXII, 


"  No  hurry,  no  hurry,"  said  he ;  "  you  liave  a 
fortnight's  lebure  before  you.  My  father  is  laid 
up  at  Powderham  House  with  a  fit  of  the  gout,  (a 
disorder  which  every  minister  who  respects  himself 
keeps  in  reserve  for  emex^gencies ;)  and,  I  am  happy 
to  say,  your  rotation  at  your  board  does  not  com- 
mence till  next  month." 

Now  Lord  Baltimore  was  happy  to  say  so,  not 
only  becatise  desirous  that  the  new  Commissioner 
should  enjoy,  unmolested  by  official  cares,  and  in 
the  bosom  of  hb  family,  his  first  few  weeks  in  the 
metropolb ;  but  in  order  that  he  might  become  a 
little  sophbticated  by  London  air  before  he  en- 
countered the  contact  of  hb  colleagues ;  and  more 
especially,  before  he  was  exposed  to  the  keen 
scrutiny  of  the  Earl  of  Powderham's  private  Secre- 
tary, Mr.  Minchem.  He  waft  anxious  that  his 
friend  Erskine  should  order  a  coat  from  Stuiz,  and 
get  into  London  habits,  or  rather  out  of  the  country 
habit  of  telling  not  only  the  truth,  but  the  whole 
truth,  and  notlilng  htU  the  truth. 

*^  This  excellent  fellow  will  not  do  at  present  for 
official  life!"  was  Lord  Baltimore's  secret  com- 
ment, after  listening  to  the  new  Commissioner's 
avowal  of  a  most  conscientious  and  ardent  desire 
to  do  his  duty  in  the  new  state  of  life  into  which 
it  had  pleased  the  King  to  call  him,  **  He  will 
work  too  hard  by  half,  and  speak  too  soft ;  I  must 
get  Minchem  to  school  him  a  little,  before  I  trust 
him  among  the  Treasury  sharks.  Biit,  plague  take 
it !  Minchem  himself  is  the  sharpest  of  t]iem  all ! 
Minchem  wanted  my  father  to  give  this  Comrait*- 
sionership  to  Lady  Louisa's  brother.  Minchem 
will  make  but  a  mouthful  of  him ;  I  can't  trust 
him  alone  with  Minchem !" 

Nevertheless,  when  the  period  arrived  for 
Erskine's  inauguration  into  his  duties  of  office. 
Lord  Baltimore  was  fiiin  to  turn  him  over  to  the 
hands  of  the  private  Secretary ;  and  poor  Erskine, 
whose  reverence  for  the  gravities  of  official  life 
was  still  unabated,  could  scarcely  recover  from  hU 
surprise  at  finding  in  the  man  he  had  pictured  to 
himself  as  a  stem,  pains-taking,  reflectionate  man, 
a  flippant,  familbr  young  gentleman,  apparently 
just  emancipated  from  Eton. 

•*  Baltimore  infoims  me,"  eaid  he,  in  tuiswcr  to 


BLANKS  AND  PRIZES  ;  OR, 


the  neryons  salntation  of  Captain  Erskine,  "  that 
you  want  me  to  help  you  in  breaking  the  ice  with 
the  Dons  of  yonr  board?  Aliens! — I  suppose  we 
shall  find  some  of  them  at  the  shop.  Though  I 
know  that  Somersety  the  chairman,  seldom  finds 
his  way  to  the  scratch  till  after  twelve." 

To  reject  the  services  of  a  master  of  the  cere- 
monies provided  by  his  exeellent  friend  Lord  Bal- 
timore, was  out  of  the  question  :  but  truth  to  say, 
Ca{>tain  Erskine  felt  a  little  ashamed  of  the  boyish 
sauciness  of  his  guide ;  more  especially  when,  on 
following  him  into  the  spacious  chamber  overlook- 
ing the  river,  in  which  he  was  for  the  future  to 
officiate,  he  saw  that  the  couple  of  gentlemanly 
men  who  rose  on  their  entrance,  were  advanced  in 
years,  and  of  sufficiently  grave  deportment. 

But  the  individual  by  whom  he  was  formally 
presented  to  their  attention,  was  no  longer  the  per- 
fumed flippant  dandy  who  had  treated  Atmonly  as 
"  Baltimore's  "  particular  friend.  In  setting  foot  on 
an  official  floor,  he  became  in  a  moment  the  senten- 
tious solemn  prig  of  a  private  Secretary  of  the  Earl 
of  Powderham  ;  a  person  to  whom  the  Commission- 
ers bowed  with  unspeakable  deference,  though  the 
contemporary  of  their  own  grandsons.  They 
talked  together  about  the  weather,  with  mysteri- 
ous gravity ;  and  of  the  gout  of  Lord  Powderham, 
with  reverential  awe.  Towards  himself,  whom  they 
understood  to  be  a  person  high  in  the  regard  of  the 
Earl,  their  respect  was  equally  marked.  But  by 
the  promptitude  with  which  they  threw  off  their 
artificial  formality  the  moment  the  private  secre- 
tary quitted  the  room,  the  new  functionary  learnt 
to  appreciate  the  tact  shown  by  Lord  Baltimore, 
in  selecting  Mr.  Minohem  as  the  interpreter  of  his 
merits. 

Nevertheless,  when  he  thanked  his  kind  friend, 
he  was  cautioned  against  relying  too  much  on  the 
candour  of  the  man  who  had  transacted  his  busi- 
ness in  so  off-hand  a  manner. 

**  Minchem's  a  sharp  and  useful  fellow ;  but  don't 
trust  him  too  far !"  said  Baltimore.  "  Whenever 
you  want  anything  of  my  father  apply  to  me,  I, 
at  least,  shall  tell  you  the  truth.  But  habits  of 
lying  are  so  invaluable  to  the  private  Secretary  of 
a  great  man,  that  it  is  too  much  to  expect  him  to 
get  his  tongue  out  by  sincerity,  in  particular  in- 
stances. I  advise  you,  therefore,  to  talk  and  listen 
to  Minchem  with  the  greatest  reserve." 

After  such  a  recommendation,  it  was  a  relief  to 
the  single-minded  soldier  to  find  he  was  to  have  no 
official  intercourse  with  the  private  Secretary. 
Meanwhile,  his  new  duties  soon  came  easy  to  him. 
Restored  in  health  and  spirits,  and  cheered  by  the 
society  of  men  of  sense  and  education,  from  which 
he  had  been  so  long  debarred,  his  mind  gradually 
recovered  its  tone,  as  his  frame  its  elasticity.  Re- 
lieved from  the  pressure  of  domestic  oaie,  he  was 
at  leisure  to  become  a  man  again. 

A  very  short  experience  rendered  him  a  favour- 
ite among  his  colleagues.  With  hu  habits  of  life, 
work  was  play ;  and  he  was  ready  to  accept  double 
his  share.  His  shoulder  was  always  ready  for 
the  wheel.  He  wanted  no  holidays.  Early  hours^ 
and  a  constant  residence  in  town,  were  no  punish- 
ment to  Captain  Erskine ;  and  certain  of  the  old 


brother-officers  who  had  so  compassionated  his 
drudgery  at  Apston,  would  perhaps  have  pitied 
him  almost  as  much  at  Somerset  House,  had  they 
been  aware  how  much  of  other  people's  duties  he 
contrived  to  saddle  upon  his  shoulders. 

Nor  did  he  want  for  cheerful  society.  The  news- 
pajper  announcement  of  his  appointment  brought 
around  him  numbers  of  his  old  army  acquaintance ; 
while  his  cousins^  the  three  daughters  of  Sir  John 
Erskine,  (the  innocent  cause  of  so  much  misery  to 
him,)  two  of  whom  were  now  settled  in  life  hy 
brilliant  marriages,  hastened  to  make  the  acquain- 
tance of  his  wife,  whose  unpretending,  lady-like 
manners  recommended  her,  at  first  sights  to  their 
good  opinion. 

But  of  all  his  associates.  Lord  Baltimore  was 
the  steadiest  and  most  valued.  Scarcely  a  day 
passed  without  their  meeting.  The  happiness  of 
the  Erskines  was  so  completely  his  work,  that  the 
young  lord  experienced,  in  the  sight  of  their  pro- 
sperity, a  sense  of  enjoyment  it  was  difficult  to  deny 
himself.  At  the  period  of  his  former  intimacy 
with  hinproUg^^  he  was  himself  a  younger  brother; 
nor  had  his  father  at  that  time  auooeeded  to  his 
earldom  ;  and  he  had,  consequently,  undergone 
wholesome  schooling,  as  a  subaltern  in  a  marching 
regiment,  the  happy  results  of  which  the  recency 
of  the  death  of  the  late  Earl  of  Powderham  and  of 
his  own  elder  brother  had  not  yet  suffered  to  eva- 
porate. The  most  heartfelt  recolleotions  of  his  life 
were  attached  to  the  period  when  he  was  the  com- 
rade and  day-by-day  companion  of  Alexander 
Erskine ;  and  it  seemed  to  freshen  and  revive  then, 
among  tiie  artificialities  of  his  new  honours,  to 
take  his  place  in  the  homely  household,  and  see, 
in  the  worship  bestowed  on  his  friend  by  children 
and  wife,  indications  of  warmer  feelings  than  were 
compatible  with  the  etiquettes  of  stare  and  garters, 
among  which  his  own  destinies  were  appointed. 

For  a  time.  Lord  Baltimore  seemed  to  debate 
whether  he  should  act  kindly  or  wisely  by  with- 
drawing his  friend  from  these  simple  pleasures,  to 
dazzle  his  honest  eyes  with  the  brilliancies  of 
Powderham  House.  But  the  consideration  that 
Erskine's  worldly  interests  might  be  materially 
served  by  an  introduction  to  a  man  so  high  in 
office  as  his  father,  finally  prevailed ;  and  as 
Erskine  had  three  little  boys  to  be  provided  for 
hereafter,  and  was  now  sufficiently  resubmitted 
to  the  conventional  usages  of  life  to  be  exposed  to 
the  fastidious  scrutiny  of  even  an  Adolphus  Min- 
chem, without  fear  of  being  converted  into  a  butt, 
Lord  Baltimore  represented  to  his  friend  the  pro- 
priety of  making  the  acquaintance  of  the  Earl, 
through  whose  interest  he  had  obtained  his  appoint* 
ment. 

"  I  don't  promise  you  that  you  will  find  my 
family-circle  a  pleasant  one ! "  said  he.  '*  They 
are  stiffish  sort  of  people.  I  flatter  myself  you 
will  tell  me,  some  day  or  other,  that  you  like  ms  the 
best  of  them.  But  my  father  has  the  power  to 
serve  you,  and  has  already  shown  the  will.  So 
the  sooner  you  make  your  bow  to  him  the  better.*' 

The  bow  was  soon  made ;  and  as  Lord  Balti- 
more exercised  in  the  family  the  sort  of  influence 
usually  exercised  by  an  eldest  son,  (where  the 


THE  WHEEL  OP  FORTUNE. 


n 


ttUtes  afe  entailed,)  his  friend,  shortly  afterwards, 
received  a  formal  invitation  to  dinner.  In  minis- 
terial honses  there  are  always  three  or  fonr  well- 
dressed  nondescript  hangers-on,  who  cover  each 
other  8  insignificance,  and  are  regarded,  or  rather 
iluregarded,  hy  the  aristocratic  portion  of  the 
assembly,  as  part  of  the  inevitable  paraphernalia 
of  official  life.  Erskine,  with  his  qniet  manners 
and  sober  black  coat,  passed  for  one  of  these;  and, 
as  sach,  was  at  leisure  to  take  note  of  the  new 
world  into  which  he  was  thus  singularly  trans- 
lated ;  for  he  was  no  longer  the  acquiescent  man 
whose  weariness  of  mind  and  body  had  unresist- 
ingly adapted  itself  to  the  tameness  of  Apston,  on 
his  arrival  at  the  White  House.  Since  then,  his 
mind  had  passed  through  the  searching  ordeal  of 
adversity.  Since  then,  he  had  acquired  the  respon* 
sibilities  of  a  husband  and  a  father.  He  was  not 
now  content  to  take  with  equal  thanks  the  buffets 
and  rewards  of  Fortune,  or  to  doff  the  world  aside, 
and  bid  it  pass.  On  the  contrary,  he  was  desirous 
to  examine  it  with  deliberation,  as  the  world  in 
wbieh  not  only  his  own  destinies  were  to  be 
achievsd,  but  the  destinies  of  his  dearer  successors. 
Not  altogether  bewildered  by  the  stirring  chances 
whieh  had  snatched  him  up  like  a  whirlwind,  to 
ietlitm  fall,  like  the  Cadi  in  the  Arabian  tale,  in 
the  King's  chamber,  he  stood  aloof-— <^  among  them, 
but  not  of  them" — in  the  circle  he  found  assembled 
at  Powderham  House. 

For  there  were  courtiers  upon  the  earth  in  those 
days.  George  IV.  was  on  the  throne  of  England, 
Loois  XVIII.  on  that  of  France ;  and  a  variety  of 
smirking  lords»  arrayed  in  a  variety  of  coloured 
ribands^  performed  lto4ow  at  the  feet  of  both. 
Courtiers,  like  golden  pippins,  have  now  become 
extract.  Cabinet  ministers,  lords  of  the  bed- 
chamber, nay,  even  royal  favourites,  there  must  be 
to  the  end  of  time.  But  there  is  no  longer  such  a 
thing  besetting  either  Windsor  Castle  or  the 
Tnileries,  as  a  man,  or  set  of  men,  content  to 
Bhuffle  off  their  own  habits,  tastes,  and  opinions, 
and  shuffle  on  the  cast-off  ones  of  the  Sovereign, 
like  Lord  Powderham  and  his  colleagues. 

Yet,  aforetime,  no  dishonour  was  attached  to 
either  the  name  or  vocation.  Aforetime,  a  poet 
wrote  boldly  in  his  tragedy,  **  Enter  the  king 
snd  his  courtiers;"  and  proud  was  the  noble 
lord  who  could  talk  of  his  ancestor  being  one  of 
the  courtiers  of  Henry  IV.  or  Charles  11.  But  the 
n»ch  of  Reform  smoked  out  the  noxious  insects 
into  which  the  great  vassals  of  the  crown  had 
Regenerated  ;  and  the  Earl  of  Powderham  and  his 
tribe  will  probably  be  commemorated  in  history 
M  the  last  of  the  species  who,  however  indepen- 
dent in  fortune  or  high  in  rank,  fancied  that  the 
tide  in  the  affairs  of  men  which,  taken  at  the  full, 
w  said  to  bear  them  into  the  fairest  haven,  never 
flows  so  wooingly  as  along  the  kennels  of  Wind- 
wir  Castle! 

Unhappily,  the  adage  of  "  tel  maitre^  tel  valet,"  is 
Applicable  to  a  higher  sphere ;  and  the  courtier 
of  a  king  who  delights  in  adulation,  is  pretty  sure 
to  Mght  in  toadyism.  The  Earl  of  Powderham 
Wtt  consequently  surrounded  with  parasites,  in 
eolation  of  the  sovereign  at  whose  footstool  he 


was  in  the  habit  of  cringing.  Lord  Baltimore  was 
the  only  person,  even  of  his  own  family^  in  the 
habit  of  accosting  him  with  downright  truth ;  and 
poor  Erskine  was  amazed  to  perceive,  in  the  course 
of  his  first  dinner-party  among  lords  and  ladies, 
that  all  he  had  esteemed  so  petty  and  provincial 
in  the  subservience  of  a  sneaking  coterie  to  his 
cousin  Lavinia,  was  emulated,  on  a  more  exalted 
scale,  among  the  greatest  in  the  land. 

Just  as  the  courtiers  of  the  king  drank  sherry 
and  bathed  at  Brighton,  because  the  exhaust- 
ed constitution  of  his  Majesty  required  the  sti- 
mulus of  Spanish  wine  and  sea-air,  the  most 
obe4ient  humble  servants  of  Powderham  House 
affected  an  enthusiasm  for  Dutch  pictures,  because 
the  Earl  preferred  Cuyp  to  CUiude,  and  Teniers  to 
Guido ;  and  would  listen  to  no  music  but  Ame, 
Callcott,  and  Shield,  because  his  lordship's  ear  was 
unattunable  to  the  statelier  harmonies  of  the  Italian 
school.  Certain  of  the  nondescripts  in  black  oc- 
casionally advanced,  with  becoming  deprecation, 
a  slightly  differerU  opinion ;  such  as,  that  *^  the 
English  operas  of  Storace  and  Kelly  (which  were 
known  to  be  pirated  from  the  Italian)  were  som^ 
times  not  so  bad,"  or,  for  want  of  argument^ 
the  conversation  might  have  flagged;  and  startling 
was  it  to  the  sober  sense  of  Erskine  to  perceive 
the  outburst  of  exaggerated  horror  with  which  these 
diffeiences  of  opinion  were  received  by  the  cour- 
tiers, male  and  female, — ^loud,  like  drums,  in  pro- 
portion to  their  hollowness.  The  ladies,  more 
especially,  were  so  fully  of  dear  Lord  Powder* 
ham's  way  of  thinking,  as  to  be  "  horrified  at  the 
want  of  patriotism  of  the  person  who  could  prefer 
Mozart  or  Rossini  to  *  native  talent;'"  while 
Erskine,  who  had  not  supposed  such  wann  parti- 
sanship to  exist,  except  in  matters  of  politics,  little 
suspected  that  the  spasmodic  vehemence  of  the 
disputants  was  assumed,  to  fill  up  the  languid  va» 
cuity  of  their  discourse,— as  geographers, 
'^  On  pathless  downs 
Place  elephants  for  want  of  towns." 
To  his  ears  the  superlatives  garnishing  the  excla- 
mations of  the  Powderham  clique  were  bond  fide 
expressions  of  misplaced  enthusiasm ! 

The  time  was  not  yet  come  for  his  more  experien- 
ced eye  to  detect  the  difference  between  rouge  and 
a  natural  bloom, — ^between  Roman  pearls  and  those 
of  Ormus.  At  present,  aU  he  heard  and  saw  was 
real ;  and  to  one  who  has  buffeted  hand  to  hand 
with  the  necessities  of  life,  such  wondrous  impor- 
tance attached  to  its  mere  garnish  sounds  like  a 
mockery.  Often,  in  his  humbler  retreat,  had  he 
allowed  himself  to  C9gitate  upon  affairs  of  state 
with  the  freedom  of  an  honest-hearted  man,  un- 
shackled by  party  connexions,  and  the  perspicuity 
of  a  clear-headed  man,  unpuzzled  by  over^educa- 
tion;  and  it  had  frequently  amazed  him  how 
such  very  glaring  abuses  were  suffered  to  subsist, 
or  heaps  of  rubbish  permitted  to  encumber  the 
ways  of  public  life,  which  a  single  stroke  of  the 
broom  might  dear  away.  But  he  was  no  longer 
surprised,  now  that  he  heard  the  conscript  fathers 
expending  what  he  had  a  right  to  suppose  the  ener- 
gies of  their  eloquence  in  fighting  the  battles  of 
the  Ancient  Music  and  its  directors. 


BLANKS  AXD  PRIZES;  OR, 


A  violent  argument  which  he  one  night  hap- 
pened to  overhear  between  two  bald-headed  dukes 
high  in  the  councils  of  their  sovereign,  and  which, 
unheard,  his  innocence  had  attributed  to  the  then 
political  touchstone  of  the  CathoHc  Question, 
proved  to  refer  to  the  expected  arrival  in  London 
of  Rossini,  and  the  advisability  of  offering  him 
some  public  distinction.  The  battles  of  Hadyn 
and  Mozart  were  frequently  fought  o'er  again  at 
Powderham  House ;  and  having  been  eagerly 
seized  upon  by  the  rival  factions  on  entering  the 
iield  of  battle.  Captain  Erskine  found  himself  ad- 
dressed, not  with 

"  Under  what  king,  Bezonian  t  speak  or  die !  " 

but  Under  what  fiddler  ? 

The  arguments  of  so  select  an  assembly  were, 
of  course,  **  though  deep,  not  loud ;"  and  the  prattle 
as  small  in  emission  as  it  was  prodigious  in  no- 
thingness. The  great  guns  were  muilled,  and  the 
warriors,  like  Lear's,  shod  with  felt.  But  what  a 
waste  of  time,  thought,  and  care,  in  the  sham 
fights  of  this  mimic  war,  on  the  part  of  those 
whose  time,  thought,  and  care,  were  pledged  to 
their  country! 

When  Erskine  returned  home,  he  drew  a  deep 
breath  after  crossing  his  own  threshold,  as  if  re- 
lieved to  find  himself  once  more  on  terra  firma. 
He  felt  as  though  he  had  been  dancing  on  a  tight- 
rope of  silk,  over  an  abyss  of  which  the  raging 
billows  were  made  of  painted  cotton,  like  those  of 
a  stage  decoration  ;  and  it  was  a  comfort  to  be 
asked,  in  a  genuine  voice,  the  simple  question  of, 
**  Well,  have  you  spent  a  pleasant  evening  ?  '*  and 
know  that  the  wonis  rtdlly  purported.  Has  your 
evening  been  pleasant  ? 

Margaret  had  never  looked  so  attractive  in  his 
eyes,  as  now  that  they  were  wearied  with  the 
fripperies  of  fashion,  and  his  ears  harassed  with 
the  jargon  of  affectation ;  and  he  put  his  hand  into 
hers  with  a  feeling  of  trust  and  tenderness,  conso- 
latory enough  to  one  who,  ever  since  the  children 
were  in  bed,  had  been  trying  in  vain  to  busy  her^ 
self  sufiiciently  with  a  book  or  needlework,  to  for- 
get that  her  husband  was  enjoying  the  pleasures  of 
a  sphere  to  which  he  naturally  belonged,  and  from 
which  she  had  withdrawn  him  into  her  own.  For  on 
looking  into  his  face,  she  saw  that  he  might  have 
been  spending  k  pleasant  evening,  but  tliat  he  was 
conscious  of  having  lost  a  happy  one ! 

*'  We  cannot  expect  a  whole  family  of  Balti- 
mores !"  said  he,  in  answer  to  her  intem^tions. 
*'  Lord  Powderham  is  apparently  a  cold,  selfish, 
old  man,  who  makes  his  estimation  of  his  own 
consequence  apparent  by  his  efibrts  to  set  one  at 
case ;  and  the  Countess  is  a  woman  of  fifty,  who 
dresses  as  much  as  any  two  women  of  five-and- 
twenty.  Their  daughters  are  pretty,  affected  girls, 
who  talk  about  *doat8  of  bonnets'  and  Moves  of 
songs  ;*  and  though  two  or  three  men  were  of  the 
party,  whose  speeches  in  the  House  prove  them  to 
possess  distinguished  talents,  1  conclude  they  r^ 
Hci  ve  these/or  the  House  :  for  never  was  there  any- 
thing more  pointless  than  their  small-talk." 

"  In  sliort,  you  were  nut  amused  ?" 

*'  On  ihv  cuutiarv,  I  was  fjixaOy  aniubcd.    But 


I  had  expected  to  be  edified.  I  wanted  to  ves^i 
Lord  Powderham.  I  wished  to  find  Baltimore 
surrounded  by  a  family  deserving  of  him  !" 

On  the  other  hand,  the  impression  made  l)y 
Captain  Erskine  was  more  favourable  than  tlio 
impression  he  had  received.  In  ministerial  circles, 
every  member  is  as  much  the  representative  of  a 
certain  interest,  as  every  member  of  the  House 
of  Commons.  Erskine  represented,  at  Powderham 
House,  the  personal  partiality  of  a  son  and  heir 
who  had  cut  off  the  entail  of  the  Powderham 
,  estates  to  a  sufficient  extent  to  pay  the  debts  of  hi$ 
father,  and  assign  portions  to  his  sisters;  and 
such  a  member  had  prodigious  claims  on  the  cour- 
tesies of  the  clique. 

But  Lord  Baltimore  passed  in  his  family  for  a 
very  odd  fellow.  In  addition  to  the  usual  mater- 
nal sorrows  with  which  the  Countess  bewailed  the 
loss  of  her  eldest  son,  (who  was  everything  the 
fondest  mother  could  wish  for  in  an  eldest  son: 
at  eighteen,  a  member  of  White's  ;  and  at  fifteen 
the  pet  vaUeur  of  Almack's,— to  say  nothing  of 
Newmarket  and  other  distinctions,  which  had  left 
a  heap  of  debts  upon  the  shoulders  of  his  noble 
family,)  she  often  lamented  that  her  dear  Balti- 
more of  to-day  *'  had  not  been  educated  with  a  view 
to  his  present  distinctions.  During  his  uncle's 
lifetime,  in  spite  of  all  her  representations^  he  had 
been  allowed  to  work  out  his  promotion  in  the 
line.  She  was  afraid  he  would  never  get  over  that 
marching  regiment !  He  was  always  entangliiii,' 
himself  with  odd  people.  He  was  not  au  niveau 
of  his  position !"  When,  therefore.  Captain 
Erskine  was  announced  to  her,  as  recommended  hv 
her  son  to  his  father  for  an  appointment,  as  tlie 
gallant  preserver  of  his  life  in  Spain,  the  Countess 
felt  convinced  that  some  unpresentable  savage, 
some  horrid  half-pay  Captain,  was  to  be  the  object 
of  her  civilities. 

Such  as  he  might  prove,  he  must,  of  courtie,  iv 
borne  with  :  ''J3altimore  had  strong  claims  un 
their  forbeai-ance."  Even  had  the  lady-motiier 
been  aware  tlmt  what  Lord  Baltimore,  cogni- 
sant of  the  foibles  of  his  family,  described  hs 
"  rural  retirement  in  Shropshire,"  was  in  fact  stir- 
vation  at  Apston,  she  would  have  felt  bound  to 
welcome  the  new  junior  Commissioner  witli  as 
much  suavity  as  was  compatible  with  a  very  stift' 
Parisian  corset,  and  a  very  genant  Parisian  toque. 

It  was  a  great  ralief,  therefore,  to  find  in  Ca{i- 
tain  Erskine  a  diffident  well-bred  man,  by  no 
means  disposed  to  trespass  on  their  good  uitention>. 
There  was  a  reserve  in  his  manner,  and  paleue»$ 
on  his  cheek,  which,  to  the  young  ladies  of  thoK' 
Byronized  times,  savoured  of  romance.  Like  mout 
of  the  sons  of  respectable  colonial  families,  he  had 
been  sent  to  England  for  education  at  an  early 
age ;  and  spent  his  five  years  at  Harrow,  leamuig 
the  nothing  which  boys  are  sent  to  public  schooU 
expressly  to  learn.  At  sixteen  an  ensigncy  in  the 
army  put  the  finishing  stroke  to  the  ignorance 
thus  auspiciously  begun.  He  had,  consequently, 
passed  the  last  thirty  years  in  acquiring  that  more 
valuable  portion  of  human  knowledge,  which  is 
learned  without  the  intervention  of  books.  Fifteen 
yews  on  active  service,  and  ten  in  domestic  seclu- 


THE  WHEEL  OF  FORTUNE. 


iflan,  left  him  competent  to  dlscliaige  the  ordinary 
(iuties  of  a  citizen ;  and  judge,  with  tolerable  (lis- 
cemmenty  the  capacity  of  those  intrusted  with  the 
higher  offices  of  the  state. 

Bat  it  was  no  indication  of  wit  or  wisdom  that 
rendered  him  acceptable  to  the  fine  people  at 
Powderham  House  :  it  was  his  reality !  A  certain 
distinctness  from  themselves,  pointed  him  out  to 
them  as  a  piece  of  genuine  nature.  They  believed 
in  his  word,  they  confided  in  the  changes  of  his 
coantenance.  When  ke  expressed  admiration, 
they  were  flattered.  It  was  like  receiving  a  single 
good  sixpence  with  a  handful  of  flash  notes ! 

Such  persons  as  Adolphns  Minchem  were  a  little 

pat  out  by  the  veracity  of  the  new-comer,  and 

scarcely  knew  how  to  parry  with  a  foil  the  touch 

of  a  true  Toledo.     But  even  the  private  Secretary, 

a  man  of  expedients^  and  aware  that  he  mnst  learn 

to  accommodate  himself  to  the  peculiarities  of  one 

K>  high  in  the  estimation  of  his  patron's  family, 

soon  adopted  a  mode  of  dealing  with  him ;  or 

rather  submitted  to  treat  him  with  the  indulgence 

shovn  to  a  raw  recruit,  before  he  has  etuhssi  his 

umform  or  learned  to  handle  his  musket.    The 

iodalgence  woold  have  been  a  little  more  oontemp- 

imas,  perhaps,  had  not  the  shrewd  Secretary  stood 

considerably  in  awe  of  *^  Baltimore !" 


PABT  IV. 

The  kinsfolk  of  modem  times  are  apt  to  resem- 
ble crocuses,  which  expand  like  globes  of  gold  in 
the  sanshine,  but  shut  up  their  hearts  again  as  soon 
as  the  skies  are  overcast. 

It  was  surprising  how  warmly  old  Sir  John 
Erskine  expressed  his  satisfaction  in  the  prosperity 
of  a  nephew,  who,  so  long  as  he  remained  at 
Apston,  might  as  well  have  been  buried  in  St. 
Peter's  Churchyard,  as  in  his  humble  home,  for 
any  inquiry  that  his  uncle  had  been  at  the  trouble 
of  making  I  It  is  true  he  was  justified  in  infer- 
ring that,  since  settled  in  the  native  place  of  his 
mothers  wealthy  family,  his  nephew  must  be  well 
provided  for.  He  knew,  indeed,  that  his  poor 
brother  had  derived  no  fortune  from  the  same 
source ;  and  that,  when  the  Erskine  family  and 
the  Loyalist  cause  were  ruined  together  by 
the  issue  of  the  American  war,  a  small  colonial 
appointment  afforded  as  meagre  a  compensation 
to  his  brother  Alexander,  as  his  baronetcy  to  him- 
self. But  the  Secretary  of  the  British  American 
province  had  managed  to  give  his  only  son  a  good 
education,  and  procure  him  a  commission ;  which, 
a»  Sir  John  often  remarked,  was  provision  enough 
for  a  young  man  of  spirit. 

Sow,  however,  that  the  young  man  of  spirit  had 
progressed  into  a  middle-aged  man  of  good  pro- 
spects, it  was  only  natural  he  should  take  a  warmer 
interest  in  his  welfare.  Not  that  he  intended 
Captain  Erskine  should  ever  profit  by  his  heirship 
presumptive  to  his  title.  Sir  John,  who  was  en- 
joying a  green  old  age,  had  always  determined 
that  the  second  baronet  of  his  line  should  be  a  son 
of  his  own  by  a  second  marriage ;  and,  if  this 
heir-chimerical  were  slow  in  making  its  appear- 
ance, it  was  only  because,  at  the  various  watering- 
places  where  the  old  gentleman  was  in  the  habit 


of  looking  out  for  a  wife,  he  was  apt  to  set  his  af- 
fections on  things  above  him,  and  fancy  himself 
entitled  to  birth  and  fortune,  as  well  as  youth  and 
beauty.  He  asked,  in  short,  too  long  a  price  for 
his  Lady  Erskineship  ;  and  it  consequently  hung 
on  hand. 

The  matrimonial  campaigns  at  Brighton  and 
Leamington,  however,  which  had  failed  to  cut 
short  the  prospects  of  little  Algernon  Erskine, 
had  at  least  married  ofi^  Sir  John's  two  elder 
daughters,  the  one  to  an  Irish  peer,  the  other 
to  a  Yorkshire  squire  ;  excellent  matches,  to 
which  the  personal  merits  of  Jane  and  Sophia 
Erskine  did  ample  credit.  Lady  Carrolstown  and 
Mrs.  Wakehurst  having  houses  in  town,  and  being 
always  ready  to  chaperon  their  unmarried  sister, 
Geoigiana,  Sir  John  had  more  lebure  than  ever  on 
his  hands  to  look  out  for  heiresses,  and  repair  hia 
dilapidated  personal  charms  for  their  captivation  ; 
and  the  sight  of  his  nephew's  three  fine  boys,  not- 
withstanding  the  grand-unclely  cordiality  with 
which  he  welcomed  the  family  to  town,  seemed 
only  to  stimulate  a  desire  for  the  creation  of  a 
young  nursery  of  his  own. 

The  question  of  heirship  was,  however,  of  course, 
a  forbidden  one  in  both  their  houses.  Among 
Mrs.  Erskine's  limited  acquaintance  in  London, 
Geoigiana  Erskine  was  the  roost  deservedly  che- 
rished, as  a  lively,  warm-hearted  creature,  who  met 
the  little  awkwardnesses  of  her  country-cousms 
half-way,  and  treated  her  *^  cousin  Alick"  with 
the  frankness  of  a  sister.  Margaret,  who  had 
never  quite  overcome  her  feelings  of  deference  to- 
wards the  husband  so  much  her  superior  in  age 
and  qualifications,  was  sometimes  amazed  at  the 
coolness  with  which  Miss  Erskine  rallied  him  on 
his  little  foibles,  and  gave  him,  in  matters  of  tastc^ 
the  law  which  is  usually  taken  by  a  wife.  But 
how  could  he  do  otherwise  than  submit  good* 
humouredly  to  Georgiana's  banterings  and  ca* 
prices,  in  consideration  of  the  generous  warmtb 
with  which  she  adopted  her  humble  couains. 
Amid  the  gay  diversions  of  the  London  season,  and 
in  spite  of  the  claims  of  her  fashionable  sisters  to 
her  company,  she  was  full  of  attentions  to  poor 
Margaret ;  and  notwithstanding  the  distance  be« 
tween  Curzon  Street  and  Somerset  House,  and  the 
age  and  infirmities  of  the  old  baronet's  coach* 
horses^  Miss  Erskine  took  care  that  her  airings 
should  be  shared  by  the  wife  and  children  of 
Cousin  Alick,  whenever  they  found  it  agreeable. 
Georgiana  was  herself  a  little  surprised  at  the 
complaisance  with  which  her  father  (who,  though 
he  thought  his  first  wife  might  be  replaced  by  a 
second  marriage,  regarded  his  old  coachman  and 
horses  as  irreplaceable)  submitted  to  tliese  expe- 
ditions. But  Sir  John  seemed  proud  to  be  of  ser- 
vice to  his  nephew. 

"  You  will  make  Jane  and  Sophy  jealous,  my 
dear,  if  you  devote  so  much  time  to  little  Mrs* 
Erskine,"  was  all  he  had  said  in  remonstrance. 

*'  Sophia  and  Jane  have  carriages  and  horses  of 
their  own,  papa,  and  a  thousand  pleasures  at  their 
disposal,"  replied  she ;  **  while  Mrs.  Erskine  haa 
noUiing  to  relieve  the  monotony  of  her  life.  My 
Cousin  Alick  is  always  at  his  office." 


ULANKS  AND  PRIZES ;  OR 


*^  Yes ;  my  nephew  is  a  moet  zealous  public 
servant/'  said  Sir  John,  carefully  examining  in 
the  glass  the  results  of  his  morning's  Circassian 
dyeing.  ^  My  nephew,  I  am  proud  to  believe,  is 
a vety rising  man!" 

*^  An  excellent  husband  and  father,  if  he  don't 
get  spoiled  in  London,"  was  Miss  Erskine's  re- 
joinder. *^  It  is  a  satisfaction  to  see  on«  man  in 
the  world,  to  whom  his  family  is  a  first  object, 
And  an  object  in  the  right  way.  The  little 
Erskines  are  real  children,  and  allowed  to  enjoy 
children's  happiness.  After  seeing  my  poor  little 
nephews  and  nieces  dressed  out  like  puppets  or 
dancing-dogs  for  the  gratification  of  parental 
Yanity,  it  comforts  my  eyes  to  look  at  Margaret 
JSrskine's  progeny  in  plain  clothes,  which  admit 
of  climbing  and  sprawling,  riding  and  running ; 
little  healthy,  dirty,  happy,  honest  creatures,  who 
promise  \(y  grow  up  into  worthy  men  and 
women." 

**  Provided  the  simplicity  of  their  habits,  and 
h>ughness  of  their  rearing,  be  not  carried  too  far," 
•aid  Sir  John,  in  a  modifying  tone,  settling  the 
plaits  of  his  cravat.  **  My  nephew,  you  must  re- 
member, Georgiana,  is  a  rising  man,  and  his  family 
may  hereafter  have  to  move  in  the  same  circles  with 
the  offspring  of  Wakehurst  and  Lord  Carrolstown." 
"  Very  likely,  papa  ;  but  I  do  not  suppose  they 
>frould  move  in  them  with  more  credit  for  having 
worn  on  their  baby  heads  panaches  of  feathers, 
or  cockades  of  every  colour  of  the  rainbow,  like 
the  poor  little  Carrots,  who  undergo  half-an-hour's 
toilet  before  they  can  be  taken  into  Grosvenor 
Square  for  their  morning's  walk !  However,  dear 
papa,  I  am  glad  to  find  you  do  not  disapprove 
of  my  showing  attention  to  this  little  amiable,  un- 
assuming new  cousin." 

**M€y  my  dear?"  interrupted  Sir  John,  who 
was  preparing,  hat  in  hand,  for  his  daily  saunter 
to  his  dub.  "  On  the  contrary,  I  think  you  can- 
not do  better  than  cultivate  Mrs.  Erskine's  ac- 
quaintance :  for,  as  I  said  before,  my  dear  Georgy, 
I  oonsider  my  nephew  a  very  rising  man ;  and  be- 
tween ourselves " 

He  paused.  A  glimpse  of  his  daughter  s  ingenu- 
ous £itce,  which  he  happened  to  obtain  in  the  glass 
as  he  was  trying  to  get  a  parting  view  of  his  own, 
suggested  a  doubt  whether  she  were  altogether  to 
be  trusted  with  the  confidential  observation  he  was 
about  to  make.     With  a  muttered  request,  thei^ 
fore,  that  her  drive  with  Mrs.  Erskine  might  not 
render  her  too  late  for  dinner,  the  old  gentleman 
quitted  the  room ;  and  had  her  cousin  Alick  been 
still  a  bachelor,  there  might  have  been  reason  to 
Conclude  that  the  Nova  Scotia  baronet  meditated 
matrimonial  projects  in  his  favour,  accordant  with 
those  conceived  by  the  Gorgon  of  the  White  House. 
Meanwhile,  such  is  the  unsatisfiability  of  the 
human  heart,  that  neither  the  comforts  nor  the 
pleasures   she   enjoyed  altogether  contented  the 
feeling*  of  Margaret.     Though  gratified  by  the 
unexpected  notice  of  her  husband's  family,  and 
grateful  to  Heaven  and  Lord  Baltimore  for  a  degree 
Of  prosperity  beyond  the'  utmost  ambition  of  her 
"Eldest  dreams,^  Margaret  felt  rather  depressed  than 
elevated  by  the  pontlon  ^he  had  attained. 


For  she  was  no  longer  all  in  all  to  her  husband. 
Every  day  she  enjoyed  less  and  less  of  his  society. 
His  spirits  were  rising  with  his  fortunes.  He  was 
looking  ten  years  younger  than  at  the  moment  of 
his  marriage ;  twenty  years  younger  than  when 
he  quitted  Apston  for  town.  His  countenance  and 
complexion  were  becoming  bright  with  happiness; 
joy  rang  in  his  very  voice ;  and  instead  of  the 
almost  womanly  carefulness  with  which  he  had 
been  wont  to  tend  his  children,  he  now  loved  to 
incite  them  to  a  game  of  romps,  to  fling  them  to 
the  ceiling  in  sportive  affection,  to  make  them  nide 
and  noisy,  and  show  off  their  boisterous  merriment 
to  other  people.  Margaret's  ear  sometimes  thirsted 
after  those  subdued  tones  of  old,  in  which  he  used 
to  whisper  endearments  to  those  little  creatures, 
almost  as  much  the  objects  of  solicitude  as  love. 
They  were  not  pastimes  to  him  then.  They  were, 
at  once,  the  care  and  solace  of  his  anxious  life. 

Still,  Margaret  had  sense  enough  to  know  that 
she  was  tempting  Providence  by  these  ungrateful 
repinings.  To  be  angry  with  her  husband  for 
enjoying  the  blessings  showered  upon  him,  was, 
indeed,  a  weakness ;  and  though  it  was  perhaps  to 
be  desired,  considering  the  uncertain  tenure  of 
human  happiness,  that  he  should  *'  rejoice  with 
trembling," — that  he  should  not  so  thoroughly  for- 
get his  days  of  sackcloth  and  ashes, — and  that,  in- 
stead of  accepting  so  many  invitations  to  Powder- 
ham  House,  he  should  reflect  upon  the  necessity  of 
turning  his  present  position  to  account  for  the 
future  benefit  of  his  children  ;  Mrs.  Erskine  had 
no  excuse  for  fancying,  as  she  often  did,  that,  had 
he  malrled  a  wife  of  his  own  condition  of  life,  he 
would  have  been  content  to  spend  his  evenings  at 
home. 

For,  while  the  husband  felt  like  a  slave  released 
from  bondage  in  his  emancipation  from  Apston  and 
the  scorns  of  the  White  House,  and  beheld  the 
bounds  of  the  narrow  horizon  of  his  former  exis- 
tence expand,  till  he  had  scarcely  eyes  enough  to 
feast  upon  its  extended  limits,  the  wife  entertained 
an  opinion  that  he  was  now,  for  the  first  time, 
transformed  into  a  bondslave,  by  his  subservience 
to  society  ;  and  circumscribed  in  his  new  horiion, 
which  included  only  this  world  in  its  views,  while 
of  old  its  noble  prospects  extended  to  the  Heaven 
of  Heavens. 

Like  all  stay-at-home  wives,  however,  Margaret 
exaggerated  to  herself  the  delinquencies  of  her 
husband.  Half  of  the  truancy  of  poor  Erskine 
arose  from  the  importunities  of  Lord  Baltimore ; 
who,  finding  no  kindred  spirit  in  his  own  family, 
could  not  deny  himself  the  enjoyment  of  his  old 
brother-officer  s  company,  whenever  it  was  attain- 
able. Fancying  himself  in  Mrs.  Erskine's  way, 
he  would  bribe  her  husband  from  home  with  opera 
tickets,  or  private  boxes  at  the  play,  or  concerts  flt 
Powderham  House ;  recaUing  to  the  mind  of  his 
friend  the  time  when  even  the  twang  of  a  guitar 
had  charms  for  him,  and  the  smart  of  his  wounds 
was  forgotten  in  the  warble  of  a  seguidilla. 

Powderham  House,  meanwhile,  shrugged  its 
shoulders  at  the  growing  intimacy.  "  Just  like 
one  of  Baltimore's  strange  fancies!  Baltimoie 
could  never  be  persuaded  to  cultivate  an  acquain* 


THE  WHEEL  OF  FORTUNE^ 


75 


ta&ce  that  did  him  honour  in  the  ejes  of  the  world. 
Howerer,  he  might  hure  formed  a  more  dangerous 
comieidon.  Captain  Erskine's  wife  was  a  country 
dowdy ;  and  their  daughter  was  only  seven  years 

The  Earl  and  Countess  consequently  continued 
to  welcome  the  man  in  whose  company  the  plain- 
dealing,  plain-spoken  Baltimore  took  delight;  tiU, 
as  creatures  of  hahit,  they  began  to  take  delight 
in  it  also.  As  the  person,  to  secure  a  proyiuon  for 
whom  their  son  had  consented  to  a  measure  his 
parents  otherwise  despaired  of  achieving,  Lord 
Powdefham  regarded  Captain  Erskine  as  the  passive 
isstroment  by  which  the  debts  of  the  Baltimore 
family  had  been  paid,  and  its  daughters  portioned. 

Now,  in  those  days  when,  as  we  have  said  before, 

there  were  courtiers  on  the  earth,  there  was  no 

want  of  the  little  pickings,  stealings,  and  perquisites, 

— smecures  and  pensionsy-^which  constitute  the 

nattiral  nourishment  of  courtiership.    George  IV., 

if  Barrounded  with  valets,  was  a  liberal  paymaster 

to  his  valetocracy.    He  loved  to  see  his  dependants 

as  w^-dressed  as  his  weU-dreased  self :  he  loved 

to  know  that  they  fared  sumptuously  every  day. 

That  certain  of  the  people  (Or,  as  they  were  then 

oonitdered,  the  populace)  went  bare  in  consequence, 

wonJd  have  vexed  him  had  it  ever  occurred  to  his 

good-natured  feelings.     But  out  of  sight,  out  of 

mind ;  and  his  majesty,  who  took  such  good  care 

to  see  as  little  as  might  be  of  the  millions,  thought 

of  than  less.     It  was  not  his  business  to  suggest 

the  suppression  of  offices  which  his  royal  ancestors 

had  judged  indispensable  to  the  public  weal.     It 

was  the  province  of  his  minbters,  who  were  paid 

for  sueh  duties :  or,  if  they  proved  oblivious,  it  was 

the  province  of  parliament  to  jog  their  memory. 

If  parliament  itself  neglected  its  duty^  it  was  the 

faolt  of  the  people  for  choosing  such  a  parliament, 

Of  rather  for  not  enforcing  and  legalizing  its  right 

to  choose  a  better. 

And  thus,  (the  people  who  bear  so  many  bur- 
dens heing  well  able  to  support  the  weight  of  an 
additional  imputation,)  let  us  set  it  down  as  the 
fault  of  his  majesty's  faithful  populace,  that  Lord 
Powderham  was  one  day  enabled,  *•  out  of  the 
great  love  and  afifection  he  bore  to  Captain  Alex- 
ander Erskine,"  the  friend  of  his  son,  and  guest  of 
his  table^  to  offer  him  a  sinecure  of  nearly  £600  per 
annum!  Where  situated — ^how  named — ^no  matter. 
It  was  one  of  the  golden  fringes  or  tassels  attached, 
at  that  period,  to  the  chair  of  state,  per  favour  of 
Council-office,  or  Pipe-office,  or  Hanaper,  or 
some  other  of  the  gorgeous  inexplicabilities,  the 
only  certain  whereabouts  of  which  was  in  the  Red 
Book. 

The  motive  of  this  piece  of  ministerial  munifi- 
cence is  more  easily  described. 

**  Why  did  not  your  friend  Erskine  dine  here 
May?"  Lord  Powderham  had  inquired  one  night 
of  his  son. 

**  I  did  not  think  of  inviting  him." 

**  I  am  sure  I  wish  you  had.  Did  you  notice 
W  detesUbly  Minchem  played  that  last  rubber? 
LoM  Broadhaugh  (though  he  pocketed  eight  gui- 
MM  by  his  blunder)  could  scarcely  keep  his  coun- 
^ntiwe*  Now,  Erskine  plays  admirably  I  I  don't 


know  when  I  have  seen  a  cooler  or  better  playei 
than  Erskine." 

**  Yes  ;  he  was  always  considered,  in  the  regi- 
ment, a  capital  player;  and  has  probably  had 
some  practice  since.  But  though  he  good-natur^ 
edly  consented  to  hold  my  cards  for  me  the  other 
night,  while  I  slipped  away  to  the  play,  I  should 
be  sorry  to  see  him  play  here  often :  he  can't  af- 
ford it*  Erskine  is  a  family-man  of  small  means." 
**  But  his  Commisaionership  is  worth  five  or  six 
hundred  a-year?" 

*^ Something  under  five;  and  he  has  six  chil- 
dren." 

Lord  Powderham  looked  aghast :  there  was 
something  in  the  notion  of  such  penury  that  set 
his  teeth  on  edge. 

^^  Poor  fellow!"  said  he;  thinking  at  once  o£ 
Captain  Erskine's  young  family,  and  of  his  own 
over-trumped  king  of  diamonds.  And  though  he 
did  not  audibly  add,  "  We  must  see  what  can  be 
done  for  him,"  the  sentence  was  inscribed  among 
the  wrinkles  of  his  ministerial  forehead,  in  charac- 
ters as  luminous  as  those  of  Belshazzar's  feast. 

About  a  month  afterwards, — a  month  during 
which  Adolphus  Minchem  perpetually  irritated 
Lord  Powderham's  nerves  by  the  loss  of  the  odd 
trick, — (seeing  that  the  private  Secretary  was  just 
then  desperately  in  love,  or  wished  to  give  himself 
the  air  of  being  desperately  in  love,  with  a  pretty 
duchess,  higher  in  favour  at  court  than  his  patron, 
the  Earl  of  Powderham,) — ^about  a  month  after- 
wards, one  of  the  magic  whispers  which  premonish 
the  ear  of  government  whenever  a  piece  of  patron- 
age is  about  to  fall  into  its  hands,  acquainted 
Lord  Powderham  that  he  should  soon  have  a  sine- 
cure at  his  disposal.  The  aged  nephew  of  some 
duke  of  the  seventeenth  century,  who  had  never 
been  more  in  his  bom  days  than  nephew  to  a  duke 
and  a  sinecurbt,  was  about  to  drop,  in  the  fulness 
of  years  and  insignificance,  into  the  family  vault ; 
and  the  office,  bestowed  upon  his  lordship  fifty 
years  before,  to  secure  him  a  couple  of  hacks,  and 
a  seat  at  the  Opera  for  life,  into  the  disposal  of  the 
administration. 

As  there  happened  to  be  no  urgent  name,  just 
then,  upon  the  royal  list  of  noble  paupers  sub- 
mitted to  his  consideration,  the  Earl  felt  at  liberty 
to  bestow  this  opportune  windfall  on  the  excellent 
whist-player ;  and,  furthermore,  to  gratify  the  ex- 
cellent son  who  had  facilitated  by  a  fall  of  tim- 
ber the  rise  of  the  family  credit,  he  requested  Bal- 
timore to  apprize  his  friend  of  the  good  fortune 
awaiting  him.  Again,  therefore,  with  the  greatest 
delicacy.  Lord  Baltimore  entreated  his  preserver  to 
add  to  the  family  obligations,  by  accepting  what 
hundreds  of  ennobled  graspaUs  were  already  soli^ 
citing. 

The  amazement  and  gratitude  of  the  family-man, 
who  was  already  beginning  to  find  even  the  econo* 
mized  expenses  of  London  make  large  inroads  upon 
his  salary,  knew  no  bounds.  Six  hundred  a-year 
for  doing  nothing,  to  one  who,  five  years  before, 
had  again  and  again  vainly  implored  of  the  Horse- 
Guards  to  be  placed  on  active  service,  in  order  to 
work  for  his  full  pay !  He  was  thm  assured,  that 
in  the  present  reduced  state  of  the  army,  it  re- 


7C 


BLANKS  AND  PRIZES ;  OR, 


quired  immense  interest  to  be  enabled  to  do  duty 
for  the  country ;  and  now  he  was  offered  a  consi- 
deration five  times  as  large,  for  four  annual  signa- 
tures'  of  his  name :  for  Lord  Baltimore  had,  of 
coui-se,  said  nothing  of  the  gratuitous  seirioes  that 
might  be  required  of  him,  in  dealing  with  the  al- 
lied sovereigns  of  the  painted  pack. 

As  a  conscientious  man,  Erskine,  of  course,  de- 
murred a  little  concerning  the  justifiability  of  such 
an  application  of  the  public  money ;  but,  as  his 
friend  forcibly  suggested,  his  refusal  of  the  sinecure 
would  not  cause  its  suppression.  The  place  would 
be  otherwise  bestowed ;  probably  on  some  luxurious 
fellow,  buoyed  up  on  the  stream  of  fashion  by  the 
bladders  of  half-a-dozen  other  sinecures. 

The  next  annual  volume  of  the  Red  Book,  con- 
sequently, bore  inscribed  upon  its  pages  the  name 
of  Captain  Alexander  Erskine,  twice  repeated ; 
and  the  next  wliist  party  at  Powderham  House 
belield  him  battling  for  the  odd  trick,  with  all  the 
amiable  placidity  characterizing  such  battles, 
where  the  company  is  high,  and  the  stakes  are 
proportionate. 

And  now  the  secret  ingratitude  of  Margaret  to- 
wards the  good  angel  of  the  fiimily  grew  blacker 
than  ever  ;  for  she  could  not  expect  her  husband 
to  refuse  the  invitations  of  so  kind  a  patron.  And 
there  was  something  cheerless,  indeed,  in  the  even- 
ings he  spent  among  these  people;  evenings  be- 
ginning at  ten  at  night,  and  ending  towards  three 
in  the  morning.  To  one  who  felt  that  there  was 
"  nae  luck  about  the  house,  wi'  her  gudeman  awa'," 
and  who  could  neither  sleep  nor  read  for  the  un- 
natural loneliness  of  her  chamber,  the  claims  of 
Powderham  House,  and  its  whist,  constituted  a 
real  evil.  Often  would  she  steal  to  the  nursery 
for  consolation,  and  contemplate  her  treasures  as 
they  lay  asleep,  at  the  ruk  of  waking  them,  and 
afironting  the  nurse— the  privileged  tyrant  of  the 
spot.  Or  sometimes,  when  insupportably  nervous 
and  anxious,  steal  one  of  the  little  creatures  from 
its  nest,  and  hush  it  to  sleep  again  in  her  own ; 
knowing  how  next  to  impossible  it  is  for  a  mother 
to  shed  very  bitter  tears,  with  her  little  one  nest- 
ling in  her  bosom. 

Yet  when  the  truant  returned,  kindly  apolo- 
gizing for  disturbing  her  at  such  an  hour,  by  as- 
surances that  he  could  not  quit  the  party  before, 
with  the  certainty  of  prematurely  breaking  it  up 
by  his  departure,  Margaret  was  careful  not  to 
tell  him  she  had  not  yet  been  asleep.  She  knew 
it  would  annoy  him  to  know  that  she  had  been 
watching  through  those  lonely  hours,  and  that  he 
had  wholly  deprived  her  of  rest ;  for  Erskine  had 
a  pass-key  to  his  apartments^  and  slie  had  no  pre- 
text for  wakefulness. 

Bat  the  time  was  approaching  for  Margaret  to 
revenge  upon  Powderham  House  all  the  imeasi- 
ness  it  produced  in  her  little  nUnage. 

Late  in  the  summer,  about  the  time  when,  the 
great  world  having  broken  up  for  yachting  at 
Cowes  and  betting  at  Goodwood,  London  finds  itself 
partially  deserted.  Lord  Powderham,  who  had  been 
spending  a  few  days  with  the  King  at  the  royal 
cottage,  was  unexpectedly  summoned  to  town  one 
day  on  Treasury  business,  and  found  his  evening 


on  his  hands.  Lord  Baltimore  and  tl)e  greater 
number  of  the  habitues  of  the  house  were  at 
Groodwood  ;  and  tlie  Countess  expressed  some  un- 
certainty about  being  able  to  make  up  his  rubber. 

'*  Send  and  ask  Erskine  to  dinner,"  replied  her 
lord.  '^  Erskine  is  sure  to  be  at  his  post :  Erskine 
never  leaves  town." 

'<  It  is  rather  late  to  send  a  formal  invitation," 
observed  Lady  Powderham,  looking  at  her  watch. 
*<  Let  Mr.  Minchem  call,  and  invite  him  in  your 
name.  Mr.  Minchem  told  me  just  now  he  was  go- 
ing to  Downing  Street." 

Lord  Powderham  did  not  think  it  necessary  to 
rectify  an  error  into  which  her  ladyship  often 
found  it  convenient  to  fall,  that  all  public  offices 
are  contiguous ;  and  that  Downing  Street,  Somer- 
set House,  Palace  Yard,  Admiralty,  Horse-Guards, 
might  at  any  moment  be  sheltered  under  the  same 
umbrella.  On  the  contrary,  he  thought  nothing 
could  be  easier  than  for  his  Secretary  to  carry  the 
verbal  message,  and  bring  back  the  verbal  answer. 
The  result  was,  that  Lady  Powderham  had  to  look 
elsewhere  for  a  substitute  for  dumbing.  Captain 
Erskine  being  at  Goodwood.  But  having  been 
invited  by  his  patron  to  accept  the  vacant  place 
at  dinner,  Adolphus  Minchem  seized  the  opportu- 
nity of  the  ladies  quitting  the  room  after  dinner,  to 
become  more  communicative. 

"  'Pon  honour,"  said  he,  addressing  the  old  6011 
vhatU  Lord  Broadhaugh,  (who  was  a  fixture  in  the 
house,)  in  the  sort  of  audible  whisper  that  ob- 
viously intends  to  be  overheard  ;  '*  'pon  honour, 
Lord  Baltimore  is  a  sly  dog  \  With  all  his  prag- 
matical notions  of  propriety,  no  man  knows  bet- 
ter how  to  manage  his  little  afiairs  under  the  rose 
when  he  finds  it  convenient." 

"  What's  that  you  are  saying,  Mr.  Minchem, 
about  my  son  and  a  rose  ?  "  inquired  Lord  Powder- 
ham, who  was  a  little  hard  of  hearing,  and  very  of 
comprehension." 

**  Oh,  nothing,  my  lord,  nothing  I  I  can  as- 
sure your  lordship  that  it  was  nothing  worth  re- 
peating." 

''Don't  believe  him,  Powderham,"  said  Lord 
Broadhaugh,  who  had  no  ministerial  motives  for 
keeping  the  private  Secretary  at  a  becoming  dis- 
tance. *'  He  has  got  some  capital  story  about 
Baity,  which  he  is  dying  to  tell  us.  Come,  speak 
up,  Dudo.  Under  what  rose  have  you  found  Baity 
lurking  this  morning  ?  " 

*'  On  the  contrary,  your  lordship  is  as  well 
aware  as  myself  that  he  is  at  Groodwood  races," 
replied  the  Secretary,  not  quite  certain  how  far  he 
might  venture  before  the  Earl. 

''  I  suppose  he  and  Erskine  went  down  io* 
gether, "  observed  Lord  John  Greatoux,  a  young 
man  who,  for  the  sake  of  the  bright  eyes  of  Lady 
Mary  Baltimore,  occasionaUy  sacrificed  himself  to 
the  family  dinners  and  whist  of  Powderham  House. 

*'  Exactly.  You  have  just  hit  it,"  replied  Adol- 
phus Minchem,  with  an  ironical  smile.  ^  They 
went  down  together,  and  will  come  up  together, 
and  are  always  togetlier ;  a  thing  I  have  some- 
times found  it  difiicult  to  account  for  by  a  Minerva- 
Press  pretext  of  a  forlorn  hope  at  Talavera,  or 
some  sudi  Ann  of  Swansea  incident  of  ron^ance." 


THE  WHEEL  OP  FORTUNE. 


*  Captain  Erskinc  unquestionably  preserred  the 
life  of  my  son  on  tlie  occasion  to  wliich  you  al- 
lade,"  said  the  £^1,  stiffly :  for  he  liked  neither  the 
growing  flippancy  of  his  Secretary,  nor  the  defa- 
mation of  80  fine  a  wliist-player  as  Erskine. 

**  Then  I  haye  only  to  beg  Lord  Baltimore's 
and  pretty  little  Mrs.  Erskine's  pardon,  my  lord," 
cried  Minchem,  affecting  a  profound  and  contrite 
bow  of  conviction. 

**Mrs.  Erskine?"  repeated  the  Earl,  again  fancy- 
ing his  ears  had  played  him  false. 
"  Mrs.  Erskine's  and  Lord  Baltimore's  ! " 
^  Oho !  There  's  a  Jfr«.  Erskine  in  the  case,  then, 
is  there?"  exclaimed  Lord  Broadhaugh,  hastily 
fiuahing  hu  glass  of  claret.    **  Gad  I  one  might 
have  guessed  as  much.     Baity  takes  as  much  care 
of  Erskine  as  if  he  'd  an  annuity  on  his  life !     I 
never  couid  make  out  before  what  Baity  saw  in 
him,  to  throw  away  so  much  time  in  his  company  l" 
**  The  day  certainly  seldom  passes  that  Balti- 
more does  not  find  his  way  to  Somerset  House," 
obwrred  Lord  John.    '<  Lady  Powderham  was  re- 
KTHting  to  me,  the  other  day,  that  he  should  be  so 
infalUi^ed   by  a  set  of  people  who  only  serve  to 
estiuge  him  from  society  1 " 

"And  so  Erskine's  wife  is  a  pretty  woman, 
Mioehem?"  inquired  Lord  Powderham,  whose 
eorioaty  was  now  really  excited.  **  I  remember 
/our  telling  me  (when  I  wanted  particulars  about 
Captain  Erskine,  previous  to  inviting  him  to  my 
house)  that  his  wife  was  a  country  dowdy! " 

^  On  her  arrival  in  town,  my  lord,  I  confess 
she  struck  me  in  that  light,"  replied  the  Secretary. 
''  She  was  then  the  sort  of  Domestic  Cookery, 
huckaback-hemming,  country  housewife,  whom 
one  never  thinks  it  worth  wUle  to  scrutinize,  as 
regards  features  or  complexion.  And  your  lord- 
ship, I  remember,  was  very  well  pleased  to  hear 
she  was  that  kind  of  person — below  par,  I  mean, 
and  unpresentable.  You  observed  that,  under  such 
ciicamstancesy  there  could  be  no  difficulty  about 
^ving  Lord  Baltimore's  friend  the  run  of  the 
house ;  but  that  it  would  not,  of  course,  have  suited 
Lady  Powderham  to  have  a  Mrs.  Erskine  iatruded 
on  her  acquaintance." 

"  Ay,  ay !  I  see  how  it  is,  Minchem  ! "  inter- 
rupted Lord  Broadhaugh.  **  Baity  's  a  sly  fox— 
a  deneed  sly  fox !  He  has  been  imposing  upon  us 
ill  this  time,  with  his  fine  airs  of  gratitude !  The 
Commissioner's  lady  is  the  real  attraction !  Eh  ? " 
**  One  of  the  most  interesting  women  I  ever  saw 
in  my  life ! "  replied  the  Secretary.  "  Lovely 
conDtenanoe,  charming  manners, diffident — gentle." 
**  But  not  a  mere  school-girl,  I  hope  ?  I  can 't 
stand  your  angels  in  slavering  bibs,"  cried  Lord 
Broadhaugh. 

^  Mrs.  Erskine  is  the  mother  of  half-a-dozen 
ugels  ui  slavering  bibs,"  replied  Minchem,  shrug- 
/nng  his  shoulders.  **  She  is  a  beautiful  woman, 
of  about  eight-and-twenty." 

**  By  Jove !  all  this  is  worth  inquiring  about, 
Powderham,"  cried  Lord  Broadhaugh,  *'  or  you 
vili  be  having  poor  Baity  entered  for  a  deeper 
stake  than  may  suit  your  book.  Don 't  you  recoi- 
ls what  a  plaguy  passion  he  was  in  when  I  and 
Minchem  wanted  you  to  give  the  place  he  was  beg- 


ging for  Erskine,  to  Lady  Louisa's  brother,  (who 
is  now,  poor  fellow,  in  the  King's  Bench.)  Had  I 
guessed  there  was  a  pretty  Mrs.  Erskine  in  the 
case,  I  should  have  known  better  than  to  interfere 
with  his  projects." 

**  Cursed  Jesuitical,  however,  upon  my  word," 
muttered  Lord  Broadhaugh,  while  meditating,  be- 
tween his  sips  of  claret,  on  the  hypocrisies  of  the 
son  and  heir  of  his  friend. 

**  Did  Mrs.  Erskine  mention  Baltunore's  name  V 
inquired  the  Earl  of  his  Secretary,  more  gravely. 

*'  Only  BO  far,  my  lord,  that  when  I  had  ex- 
plained my  errand,  and  she  expressed  her  regret 
that  her  husband  would  be  unable  to  avail  himself 
of  your  lordship's  and  Lady  Powderham's  invita- 
tion, she  mentioned  that  he  had  accompanied  Lord 
Baltimore  and  Sir  John  Erskine  to  Groodwood."  - 

^  Well,  I  can  only  say,  that  if  there  be  a  Sir 
John  anybody  of  the  party,"  cried  the  old  nmi^ 
^  I  think  Baity  would  have  done  better  to  turn 
the  Commissioner  over  to  his  hands^  and  remain 
in  town.  I  won't  pretend  to  guess  how  such  mat- 
ters are  managed  now-a-days ;  but  in  my  time,  the 
young  fellow  would  have  recollected,  at  the  first 
turnpike,  uigent  business  in  London,  and  hniried 
back,  leaving  the  husband  safe  in  the  hands  of  the 
Philistines." 

^  Lord  Baltimore  has,  luckily,  no  occanon  to 
run  any  hazard  of  the  kind,"  observed  Adolphus 
Minchem,  with  a  significant  smile.  ^'  Erskine  is 
considered  the  best  office-man  going.  I  have  heard 
nothing  but  praises  of  his  assiduity  and  zeal  for 
the  last  twelve  months.  Erekine  is  always  at  his 
poet." 

'<And  Baity  at  to,  eh?"  cried  Lord  Broad- 
haugh, with  a  coarse  laugh. 

^  Mj  son  makes  no  secret  of  hb  daUy  visits  to 
the  Erskines,"  observed  Lord  Powderham,  gravely ; 
and  I  cannot  believe  that,  with  hu  principles^  if 
there  were  any  mischief  in  the  matter,  he  would 
parade  it  in  the  hearing  of  his  mother  and  sisters." 

**  Nor  I,"  added  Lord  John  Greatonx,  with 
spirit.  **  After  all,  Minchem  has  grounded  his 
romance  on  the  very  slight  foundation  of  a  few 
visits  to  an  old  brother-officer,  whose  wife  happens 
to  be  a  good-looking  woman." 

^  Wait  till  you  have  seen  Mrs.  Erskine,  my  dear 
Lord  John,"  cried  the  Secretary ;  ^*  or  rather  be- 
ware haw  you  see  her :  for  she  would  assuredly 
turn  your  head,  as  I  own  she  has  done  mine.  I 
must  have  been  blind  when  I  called  upon  her  two 
years  ago.  Or  somebody  has  since  taught  her  to 
dress  (or  undress)  according  to  the  more  becoming 
fashion  of  the  day  ;  for  she  ia  no  longer  the  same 
creature.    She  is  exquisite— ^positively  exquisite !" 

The  persons  to  whom  Adolphus  Minchem  ad- 
dressed himself  were  too  much  accustomed  to  ver- 
bal exaggeration,  to  assign  much  importance  to 
his  enthusiasm ;  Lord  Powderham  contenting  him- 
self with  observing — *'  The  most  interesting  point 
of  the  affair  is,  that  as  Erskine  is  at  GoMlwood 
with  my  son,  we  must  do  without  him  to-night  at 
the  whist-Uble." 

He  took  an  early  opportunity,  however,  to  com- 
municate all  he  had  heard  to  the  Countess,  who 
rather  copfinned  tlum  solaced  his  anxieties. 


J 


78 


BLANKS  AND  PRIZES;  OR, 


*^  I  remember  onoe  offering  Baltimore  to  leave  a 
card  on  Mrs.  Erskine,"  said  she ;  '^  but  he  begged 
me  notf  saying  she  was  not  accustomed  to  our  habits 
of  life,  that  d^e  was  simply  a  good  mere  defamUU^ 
and  had  no  wish  to  move  in  the  world.  I  now  see 
the  bent  of  his  policy." 

*^  The  thing  that  displeases  me  most  in  the  busi- 
ness, is  his  attempting  to  throw  dust  in  my  eyes ! " 
was  the  rejoinder  of  the  Earl.  ^'  Having  got  into 
a  serape  of  that  kind,  why  not  speak  out  to  me  at 
onoe,  as  one  man  of  the  world  to  another  ?  His 
reserre  makes  me  fear  the  worst.  It  may  be  an 
attachment,  instead  of  a  liaison.  Your  practised 
eye  would  readily  detect  the  real  state  of  the  case. 
Call  upon  Mrs.  Erskine,  therefore,  my  dear  Lady 
Powderham,  without  apprizing  Baltimore,  or  giv- 
ing him  time  to  warn  her.  Let  u%  at  least,  make 
Qiurselves  acquainted  with  h  degsous  det  cartes,^ 

Such  was  the  origin  of  a  visit  which  somewhat 
surprised  poor  Margaret  the  following  day.  While 
she  sat  expecting  the  return  of  her  husband  from 
the  races,  the  mother  and  sister  of  Lord  Baltimore 
were  suddenly  announced;  and  the  bloom  that 
rose  te  her  cheek,  adding  to  the  excited  expression 
of  eountenanoe  produced  by  the  expectation  of 
Erskine's  return  home  after  three  days'  absence, 
fully  justified  the  two  fine  ladies  in  their  opinion^ 
that  they  had  seldom  seen  a  more  attractive  wo- 
man. Her  children,  who  were  playing  in  the 
room,  were,  like  herself,  attired  in  their  best  to 
greet  their  father ;  and  such  an  air  of  domestic 
happiness  and  decency  pervaded  the  establishment, 
as  carried  conviction  to  the  mind  of  Lady  Powder- 
ham,  that  her  son's  infatuation  in  favour  of  the 
family  was  only  an  additional  proof  of  the  hum- 
drum nature  of  his  tastes. 

^  A  pretty  pleasing  woman,  but  wholly  wrapped 
up  in  her  husband  and  children,"  was  her  satisfac- 
tory announcement  to  the  Earl.  "Nothing  the 
least  alarming,  I  assure  you.  However,  you  may 
judge  for  yourself:  for  I  have  engaged  Mrs.  Erskine 
to  dine  here,  with  her  husband,  on  Monday  next." 

Such  an  invitation  had  been  indeed  accepted  by 
Margaret,  in  the  embarrassment  of  not  knowing 
how  to  decline  the  ofiered  civility  of  the  great  lady^ 
by  whose  sudden  visit  she  was  as  much  flurried  as 
was  compatible  with  the  serenity  of  her  nature  : 
not  from  any  contemptible  motive — not  because 
she  was  a  Countess ;  but  because  Margaret's  heart 
beat  quick  at  welcoming  the  mother  of  her  hus- 
band s  friend,  the  wife  of  his  patron,  the  cause  of 
her  recent  lonely  hours. 

But  no  sooner  had  her  guests  departed  than  she 
began  to  regret  her  acquiescence.  Often,  very 
often,  while  counting  the  minutes  of  Erskine's 
absence  at  Powderham  House,  and  surmising  the 
attractions  ke  might  find  in  a  circle  to  which  her 
imagination  assigned  a  thousand  indefinable  graces, 
she  had  asked  herself  whether  she  had  not  been 
happier  in  her  poor,  old  home,  when  sitting  up  to 
mend  her  children's  clothes,  while  her  husband 
yead  to  her  from  some  newspaper  a  week  old,  or  an 
odd  volume  of  The  Spectator,  than  now  in  her  ful- 
ness of  prosperity  :  and  in  those  moments  of  difr- 
content,  fancied  that  all  she  desired  on  earthy  was 
to  be  admitted  to  a  share  in  bis  pleosuxesi 


"God  forbid,"  she  would  murmur,  "that  I 
should  seek  to  debar  him  from  the  amusements 
befitting  his  condition  in  life.  I  can  understand 
his  taste  for  society,  in  which  he  is  so  well  quali^ 
fied  to  bear  a  part.  All  I  could  wish  is  the  grati- 
fication of  seeing  him  appreciated  as  he  deserves. 
If  I  could  only,  onfy  spend  a  single  evening  \vith 
him  at  Powderham  House !" 

So  littie,  however,  was  Margaret  accustomed  to 
think  of  herself,  as  to  overlook  the  fact  that  she 
could  not  be  an  unseen  spectatress,  that  she  must 
bear  her  part  in  the  pageant.  But  this  contingency 
now  rushed  into  her  mind ;  and  in  the  conscious- 
ness of  her  disabilities  for  such  a  circle,  gladJy 
would  she  have  renounced  the  long-coveted  hap- 
piness so  unexpectedly  conceded.  Never  in  her 
life  had  she  appeared  at  what  is  called  "  a  party." 
She  had  dined,  indeed,  with  the  various  branches 
of  her  husband's  family  ;  but,  at  her  own  desire, 
it  was  en/amille :  and  the  recollection  of  the  bril- 
liant attire  assumed  by  Lady  Carrolstown  and 
Mrs.  Wakehurst  for  even  so  humble  an  occasion, 
filled  her  with  terrible  conjectures  of  the  magnifi- 
cence indispensable  for  such  a  circle  as  that  of 
Powderham  House :  for  Margaret's  inexperience 
could  not  be  expected  to  surmise  that  the  highest 
portion  of  London  society  is  far  simpler  in  its 
tastes  than  those  who  have  distinction  to  attain  by 
outward  show.  Had  she  known  exactiy  how  to 
set  about  the  letter,  she  would  certainly  have  writ-* 
ten  an  excuse  to  Lady  Powderham. 

On  Erskine's  arrival,  however,  cheerful  from  tlie 
influence  of  his  pleasant  expedition,  still  more 
cheerful  from  the  influence  of  his  happy  return, 
she  began  to  see  things  in  a  different  light.  Her 
husband  was  gratified  by  the  attention  she  had  re- 
ceived. The  circle  at  Powderham  House  was  tbe 
one  with  which  he  was  most  familiar ;  and,  with 
his  present  income,  he  felt  there  was  no  pretext  for 
the  seclusion  of  his  wife.  In  his  eyes,  ^e  was  an 
ornament  to  any  society :  and  entertaining  secret 
suspicion  that  Mr.  Wakehurst  and  Lord  Carrols- 
town, though  far  from  uncourteous,  received  him 
and  his  family  at  their  houses  in  the  character  of 
poor  relations ;  he  rejoiced  to  know  that  they 
would  shortiy  hear  of  Mrs.  Erskine  as  an  honoured 
guest  at  Powderham  House. 

The  person  most  pleased,  however,  at  the  atten- 
tion  shown  to  Margaret,  was  his  youngest  cousin. 
Geoigiana  was  not  sufficiently  blinded  by  family 
partiality  to  be  unaware  that,  though  her  cousin 
Alick  might  be  an  excellent  fellow,  his  wife,  what- 
ever her  origin,  was  by  nature  far  more  highly 
gifted  ;  and  with  the  appreciation  usually  conceded 
at  her  age  to  worldly  distinctions,  thought  it  hard 
that,  in  the  Erskine  menage^  all  the  pleasures  of  life 
should  be  for  the  nuin,  all  the  drudgery  for  tbe 
woman.  In  her  opinion,  Margaret  was  not  only 
better  qualified  than  her  husband  to  withstand  Uie 
perils  of  the  great  world,  but  to  adorn  its  society. 

On  the  day  appointed.  Miss  Erskine  took  care 
to  secure  her  father's  carriage  to  the  use  of  her 
cousins,  by  pretending  to  require  it  for  herself : 
the  puix>ort  of  her  visit  to  Somerset  House  at  seven 
in  the  evening  being  to  ofier  to  Margaret's  use  the 
trinkets  and  onu^ments  which  she  fancied  might 


THE  WHEEL  OP  FORTUNE. 


19 


be  wanting  to  complete  her  dress.  But  no  sooner 
had  GreoTgiana  glanced  at  the  graceful  figure  of 
Mn.  Erskine,  arrayed  in  a  well-made  white  mus- 
lin dress,  with  her  rich  and  heautiful  hair  arranged 
in  the  simplest  manner,  than  she  felt  that  the 
chaste  and  peculiar  charm  of  her  appearance 
vonld  be  marred  by  the  slightest  change. 

"I  will  not  even  try  to  tempt  you  by  this 
trumpery,"  said  she,  putting  aside  the  jewel-case 
she  had  brought.  **  You  are  just  as  you  ought  to 
be.  Go,  my  dear  cousin,  go  and  put  the  finery  of 
these  great  ladies  to  shame." 

Nor  was  Miss  Erakine  less  gratified  on  finding 
that  her  forethought  about  the  carriage  was  ren- 
dered useless  by  the  kindness  of  Lord  Baltimore ; 
who,  little  suspecting  the  cruel  surmises  excited 
by  Us  attentions  to  the  Erskines,  had  ordered  his 
chsriot  to  be  in  attendance  for  the  wife  of  his  friend. 

ETen  he  was  not  sony  to  find  the  invitation 
giren  and  accepted.    On  the  first  arrival  in  town 
of  the  Erskines,  apprized  by  his  visit  to  Apston 
of  ths  humbleness  of  Margaret's  origin  and  the 
nuaeries  through  which  she  had  struggled.  Lord 
Baltimore  experienced  some  misgivings  as  to  the 
eSiEet  of  such  vicissitudes  offortune  on  anjf  female 
oatoR.    Bat  now  that  he  was  better  acquainted 
with  her,  now  that  he  appreciated  her  equanimity 
of  character,  and  graceful  simplicity  of  mind  and 
manners,  he  felt  reassured.      All  parties  might 
benefit  by  her  introduction  at  Powderham  House; 
and  if  there  mingled  in  thb  opinion  any  projects 
concerning  a  certain  handsome  and  amiable  cousin 
of  his  friend  Alick,  whom  he  was  in  the  habit  of 
finding  seated  by  Margaret's  fireside  in  winter,  and 
in  summer  beside  her  cheerful  window  overlook- 
ing the  Thames,  he  was  blind  to  the  fact ;  being 
still  unconscious  of  his  predilection  in  favour  of 
Georgians. 

Gfeaty  meanwhile,  was  the  gratification  of  Cap- 
tain Erskine  at  the  attentions  bestowed  on  his  wife 
at  Powderham  House.  When  kindly  reproached 
by  the  Countess  and  her  daughters  for  having  so 
long  delayed  procuring  them  so  charming  an  ac- 
quaintan<!e,  it  was  not  for  him  to  suggest  that  their 
own  backwardness  was  alone  to  blame ;  and  so 
natural  did  it  appear  to  him  that  they  should  do 
jusdoe  to  his  wife's  superiority,  and  so  beautiful  did 
she  really  look  in  her  unsullied  purity  of  complexion 
and  simplicity  of  costume  among  those  fagged  and 
faded  women  of  fashion, that,  hadanybody  mischiev- 
ously hinted  to  him  the  motive  of  her  being  invited, 
and  the  suspicions  to  which  she  was  exposed,  he 
would  have  treated  it  as  a  preposterous  jest. 

Not  even  the  rou^,  Lord  Broadhaugh,  however, 
nor  even  the  saucy  private  Secretary,  retained  so 
much  as  a  shadow  of  their  suspicions,  after  seeing 
the  perfectly  unembarrassed  deportment  of  Mrs. 
iaktne  in  presence  of  Lord  Baltimore  and  his 
ftaiily.  The  greatest  of  actresses  could  not  have 
assumed  such  candour  of  countenance.  Not  one 
of  them  but  was  oichanted  with  her.  To  people 
of  snchlugh  caste  as  the  Powderhams,  accustomed, 
from  their  eradks  to  their  coffins,  to  look  upon  the 
nme  &ces,and  live  in  the  same  set,  a  new  person- 
age is  seldom  unacceptable ;  and  though  the  great 
world  VBM  itself  at  id  points  fig^inst  ft  sew-eQmer 


who  has  pushed  his  way  into  the  magic  circle,  it  is 
ever  indulgent  in  its  judgments  of  those  promoted 
to  its  favour  by  its  own  will  and  pleasure. 

The  Powderham  clique  adopted  Mrs.  Erskine, 
in  short,  far  more  readily  than  it  had  previously 
adopted  her  husband.  She  was  their  last  new 
caprice, — ^their  last  new  toy.  In  those  days  of 
Chinese  lanterns  and  fizgigs,  it  was  not  so  difficult 
to  become  the  fashion.  The  season  was  over  ;  so 
that  there  was  less  chance  of  rivalship  in  the  affec- 
tions of  the  whist-players  and  old  china-fanciers ; 
and  the  last  thing  done  by  the  Earl  and  Countess 
in  quitting  town  for  the  autumn,  was  to  issue  a 
most  pressing  invitation  to  the  Erskines  to  join 
their  party  in  September  at  Baltimore  Castle. 

"  I  always  told  you,  my  dear  Georgy,  if  you  re- 
member," observed  Sir  John  Erskine  to  his  daugh- 
ter, when  apprized  of  these  growing  distinctions^ 
**ihai  my  nephew  was  a  very  rising  man." 

But  while  the  amiable  couple  were  thus  '^achiev- 
ing greatness"  by  having  it  "  thrust  upon  them," 
**  green  grew  the  rushes,  O ! "  in  the  Boumefields^ 
and  no  man  regarded ;  loud  grew  the  exclama- 
tions of  the  White  House  coterie  on  seeing  it  an-* 
nounoed  in  tlie  newspapers,  that  **  among  the 
fa8hi<mables  who  had  visited  Baltimore  Castle,  in 
the  course  of  the  shooting-season,  were  the  Duke 
and  Duchess  of  MacCallummore,  the  Duke  and 
Duchess  of  Ulster,  Prince  Pietro  di  Guastalla  and 
his  sister  theCountessof  Termanini,the  Marquisand 
Marchioness  of  Tottenham,  the  Earls  of  Fidzham, 
Hackness,  and  Flint,  Lord  and  Lady  Thomas  Thrap- 
nell,  and  Captain  and  Mrs.  Alexander  Erskine  ! " 

^'CAPTiUir  AKD  Mrs.  Alexander  Erskine  1"— 
No  I  For  full  a  week  Apston  would  not  believe  a 
word  of  it.  The  schoolmasters  daughter,  the 
half-pay  captain's  bride !  The  pauper  and  the 
castaway,  the  sempstress,  the  mantua-maker  of 
Hobart's  Farm, — impossible  !  It  was  a  newspaper 
imposition,  a  fraud,  a  mere  practice  on  their  credu* 
lity.  On  second  consideration,  however,  even  Dr* 
Toddles  and  his  sister  were  forced  to  avow,  that 
the  transition  from  lodgings  in  the  Market  Place 
to  Somerset  House,  and  from  starvation  on  half- 
pay  to  a  fat  sinecure,  was  not  more  marvellous 
than  this  strange  promotion.  Mortifying  as  it 
was,  therefore,  the  fact  became  establidhed  as  in- 
contestable ;  and  it  was  only  Miss  Lavinia,  who, 
amid  all  the  bitterness  of  her  heart,  continued  to 
repeat, — "  And  why  not,  pray  ?  My  cousin,  whom 
you  all  thought  proper  to  treat  so  disparagingly, 
is  very  highly  connected !  All  this  does  not  sur- 
prise mef  But  for  his  imprudent  marriage,  he 
might  have  become  one  of  the  most  distinguished 
men  in  England  1  Had  he  chosen  to  marry  one 
of  the  daughters  of  Sir  John  Erskine,  (to  whose 
baronetcy  he  is  heir-presumptive,)  my  cousin 
Alexander  might  have  enjoyed  my  fortune,  in  addi- 
tion to  his  hereditary  rank.  And  then,  pray, 
which  of  you  would  have  seen  anything  extraordi- 
nary in  his  becoming  a  visiter  at  Baltimore  Castle  ? " 

The  surprise  of  the  Toddles  tribe,  however,  arose 
rather  from  the  submission  with  which  the  man, 
gifted  with  **  such  appliances  and  means  to  boot," 
had  resigned  himself  to  the  privations  of  the  Market 
Ptaoe)  wUk  Milt  lATiBH^  proud;  ey«B  as  mattsn 


«0 


BLANKS  AND  PRIZES ;  OR, 


stood,  of  her  relationship  with  one  bo  elevated  above 
the  valgar  sphere  of  the  Apstonians,  could  scarcely 
forgive  the  officious  parasites  who  had  stirred  up 
to  so  cruel  a  pitch  her  implacability  against  her 
cousin.  After  all,  his  transgressions  were  venial. 
After  all,  the  Captain  Erskine  so  honourably  men- 
tioned by  The  Morning  Post  and  Red  Booty  was 
not  the  first  imprudent  man  in  the  world  who  had 
married  for  love ;  and  it  was  noticed  with  much 
anguish  of  spirit,  by  Toady  Toddies,  that  Miss 
Lavinia  was  beginning  to  accept  the  loan  of  the 
many  newspapers  daily  pressed  upon  her  use  ;  and 
that  the  spectacles  of  the  old  lady  were  invariably 
first  directed  towards  the  column  of  smoke,  con- 
taining what  is  familiarly  called  "  Fashionable  In- 
telligence." 

But  though,  in  the  narrowness  of  her  soul,  she 
no  longer  found  a  pretext  to  persist  in  her  disdain 
of  the  Margaret  moving  in  such  aristocratic  circles, 
she  assumed,  as  the  motive  of  a  new  inveteracy 
against  Captain  Erskine,  the  resentment  he  be- 
trayed against  her  by  abstaining  from  all  overtures 
of  reconciliation.  **  He  fancied  himself  indepen- 
dent. He  was  evidently  now  too  great  a  man  even 
to  recollect  a  country  cousin.  He  had  forgotten 
her  J  which  was  a  proof  that  he  had  forgotten  him- 
self. She  wished  he  might  not  live  to  repent  it. 
But  she  had  always  heaxd  it  threatened,  that  *  Pride 
shall  Iiave  a  fall ;'  and  these  people  had  been  raised 
in  life  too  thoroughly  above  themselves,  for  their 
fall  not  to  be  equally  signal.  She  wished  no  harm 
to  Captain  and  Mrs.  Erskine,  but  luck  is  not  the 
surest  thing  to  depend  upon  in  this  world !" 

At  present,  it  certainly  seemed  to  justify  some 
reliance  on  the  part  of  the  Erskines.  Enjoying  an 
unencumbered  income  of  twelve  hundred  a-year, 
blessed  with  good  health,  good  tempers,  and  a 
thriving  family,— esteemed  by  their  connexions, 
courted  in  society,  the  favour  of  which  they  had 
purchased  by  no  capitulation  of  conscience,  and 
supported  amid  its  vacillations  by  the  steady  friend- 
ship of  Lord  Baltimore,  it  might  be  inferred  that 
they  had  nothing  to  desire  in  this  world. 
•  But  let  the  thorny  bramble  of  human  destiny 
achieve  what  height  it  may,  the  same  intermingled 
thorns  and  blossoms  which  covered  its  branches 
while  springing  from  the  mire  or  overspreading 
the  stones,  are  perceptible  wherever  it  fiourishes 
aloft.  When,  on  her  return  to  town  from  spending 
the  Christmas  holidays  at  Baltimore  Castle,  ac- 
companied by  her  two  elder  children,  Margaret 
found  the  arms  of  the  Carrolstowns  and  Wake- 
hursts  open  to  receive  her ;  and  discovered,  that 
in  acquiring  friends  in  the  Powderhams,  she  had 
also  acquired  friends  in  her  kinsfolk :  while  listen- 
ing to  the  adulation  of  old  Sir  John,  and  the  kindly 
counsels  of  Georgiana,— and  admitting  to  herself 
that  her  comfortable  home  was  about  to  receive 
new  enhancements  from  the  society  of  the  many 
pleasant  acquaintances  already  made  by  her  sojourn 
at  Baltimore  Castle,— discontent  arose  anew  in  her 
bosom! 

*'  It  is  written,  that  no  human  happiness  shall 
be  unqualified,"  murmured  she,  wiping  away  her 
tears.  "  Graceless  that  I  am  to  repine  !  If  my 
.poor  dear  father,  if  old  Marjory  of  th?  Bourn^fieWs, 


or  if  any  of  those  cruel  people  at  Apston,  could 
witness  my  position  at  this  moment,  would  they 
not  pronounce  it  brilliant,  not  only  beyond  my 
deserts,  but  beyond  what  could  have  been  pre- 
dicted by  the  wildest  visionary  for  one  like  me  ? 
And  yet,  and  yet, — (God  forgive  me!) — I  was 
happier  in  my  old  home  in  the  Market  Place, 
slaving  for  my  children,  and  with  Erskine  con- 
stantly by  my  side,  than  here,  where  hollowneiv 
seems  under  my  feet,  and  in  the  hearts  of  all  I 
live  with.  A  feeling  of  insecurity  possesses  me ! 
I  can  no  longer  stretch  out  my  hand  and  be  reas- 
sured by  the  pressure  of  that  in  which  my  strength 
consisted.  I  extend  it,  and  find  a  blank.  Yes ! 
I  was  certainly  happier  in  my  poor,  old  home !" 

For  while  Mrs.  Erskine,  in  the  dreariness  of  a 
tedious  evening,  after  vainly  attempting  to  divert 
her  leisure  by  one  of  the  vapid  books  of  the  day, 
gave  vent  to  these  ungrateful  murmurs  against 
Providence, — she  was  again  alone  I  Again  had  a 
turn  of  the  wheel  of  fortune  created  new  anxieties 
for  the  mother  and  the  wife  !  Captain  Erskine  had 
not  even  accompanied  her  to  Baltimore  Castle; 
Captain  Erskine  had  been  hundreds  of  miles  dis- 
tant from  her,  spending  his  Christmas  in  a  circle 
no  less  august  than  that  of  Windsor  ;  not,  how* 
ever,  the  Windsor  of  to-day,  where  domestic  plea- 
sures intermingle  with  royal  festivities ;  but  in  the 
Circean  coterie  of  the  royal  cottage. 

"  Les  jours  se  suivent^"  says  a  French  proverb, 
'^  et  ne  se  resemblent  pas  ;'  and  so  do  sovereigns. 

Though  Amurath  an  Amnrath  succeed, 
And  Harry,  Harry, 

the  contradistinctions  of  royal  natures  in  the  same 
line  are  characterized  with  a  publicity  proportionate 
to  their  means  of  self-indulgence. 

In  the  royal  circle  of  those  days,  in  which  the 
restraining  infiuence  of  a  female  court  was  wanting, 
at  the  Pavilion,  or  royal  cottage,  the  chief  object  of 
courtiership  w^as  to  divert,  quand  meme,  the  ennuis 
of  Royalty, 

Languid,  joyless,  unendeared, 
by  ties  of  family  aflPection  ;  and  just  as  the  aged 
courtiers  of  Philip  II.  may  have  sometimes  looked 
back  with  incredulity  to  the  feats  of  their  early 
days  of  errant  soldiership. 

In  their  hot  yoath,  when  Charles  the  Fifth  was  king, 
more  than  one  among  the  noble  guests  of  her 
majesty  at  Windsor  Castle,  when  riding  over  the 
spot  once  occupied  by  the  royal  cottage,  must  oc- 
casionally whisper  to  themselves — ''  The  indiges- 
tions of  my  youth,  where  are  they  ?  "  and  I>ho 
answer — *^  Where !  " 

The  motive  of  Captain  Erskine's  admission  to 
this  august  domicile  was  less  objectionable  than 
many  assigned  for  the  accordance  of  favours  of  a 
similar  nature  ;  such  as  the  ofiering  of  some  mon- 
strous Chinese  rarity,  or  the  possession  of  a  recipe 
for  Supernaculum  Neapolitan  punch.  It  was  one, 
on  the  contrary,  which  did  credit  to  the  patriotism 
of  George  the  Fourth. 

For  some  years  past,  as  at  the  close  of  every 
prolonged  w^ar.  History  had  been  occupying  her 
leisure  with  the  arrangement  of  documents  autlien- 
ticating  \he  feats  of  nations ;  and  England  and 


TILE  WHEEL  OF  FOIITIINE. 


81 


France,  alike  industrioQs  in  the  task,  and  equally 
eag^r  to  array  their  rival  caps  with  the  fairest 
fetthers,  amused  the  rest  of  Europe  not  a  little  by 
usuming,  each  to  herself,  the  conquest  of  the  same 
Md  of  battle.  In  spite  of  the  publication  of  bul- 
letins, standing  orders,  and  official  returns ;  in  spite 
of  the  memoirs  of  field-marshals,  and  biographies 
of  generaliBsimos,  many  such  points  were  stUl  in 
hourly  contest.  Tka  Quartcrfy  Review  reviewed 
the  troops  and  manifestos  of  Paris  ;  the  JRevue  de 
PariSf  the  skirmishings  of  Albemarle  Street.  No 
one  appeared  to  be  quite  certain  whether  he  had 
been  beaten. 

Sach  disputes  should  always  be  submitted  to 
contemporary  elucidation.  Just,  for  instance,  as 
now,  after  the  lapse  of  fifteen  years,  the  very 
whereabouts  of  tlie  royal  cottage  is  becoming 
problematical ;  at  that  period,  (fifteen  years  after 
the  action  of  Burgos,)  its  numbers  and  manceuvres 
^rere  banning  to  be  made  matter  of  disputation. 

No  person  was  more  warmly  interested  in  esta- 
blishing, on  a  solid  biisis,  the  claims  of  national 
glory  in  these  matters,  than  the  King.  His  own 
memory,  on  such  questions,  was  of  singular  exact- 
ness ;  and  to  the  utmost  of  his  power  did  he  facili- 
tate the  collation  of  the  archives  of  the  kingdom 
for  the  establishment  of  the  truth.  It  happened 
that,  one  day  at  the  royal  dinner-table  at  Carlton 
Koose,  a  minor  question  of  Peninsular  tactics  was 
brongbt  on  the  tapis,  in  consequence  of  a  bitter 
article  in  Tlie  Edinhwrgh  RevieWy  upon  the  personal 
memoirs  of  a  distinguished  field-marshal  of  the 
empire  ;  and  as  there  were  present  two  of  the 
Cabinet  ministers  by  whom  tlie  measure  in  question 
had  been  sanctioned,  a  general  officer  of  division 
engaged  in  the  affair,  and,  above  all,  the  sovereign 
to  whose  regency  History  was  likely  to  attribute 
the  praise  or  blame  of  a  movement  insignificant  in 
itself,  but  vital  in  its  consequences,  it  was  likely 
that  the  subject  would  be  discussed  avec  eonttais- 
tanee  de  cattse, 

Nevertheless,  no  two  of  the  four  individuals  so 
deeply  concerned  in  the  matter,  could  contrive  to 
coincide !  They  had  been  reading  so  much,  and  in 
buch  divers  strains,  about  what  they  had  done  and 
&aid,  and  caused  to  be  done  and  said,  as  to  be  some- 
what puzzled  in  their  recollections.  Had  they 
been  placed  upon  their  oath,  it  is  probable  that 
one  or  other  of  them  must  have  been  indicted  for 
peijur)%  As  usual  in  England,  the  dispute,  though 
serious,  and  occurring  at  a  royal  table,  became  the 
origin  of  a  bet ;  as  the  arbitrator  of  which  the 
K'mg  selected  Lord  Powderham. 

"  Surely,  my  dear  lord,"  said  he,  "  your  son  was 
serring  in  Uic  very  lament  that  carried  the  Bridge 
ff  Almeida!  What  account  has  Lord  Baltimore 
always  given  you  of  the  affair  ?" 

Tlie  Earl  was  puzzled.  It  was  difficult  to 
answer — **  The  very  reverse  of  the  statement  just 
made  by  your  Majesty ! " 

**  My  son,  Sir,  was  then  only  an  inexperienced 
Hubaltem,"  was  his  cautious  reply.  '^  But  with 
your  Majesty's  permission,  I  will  apply  to  the 
officer  who  commanded  Baltimore's  company,  and 
who,  unless  I  am  much  mistaken,  contributed 
largely  to  the  success  of  the  movement ;  Captain 


Erskine,  whom  I  had  the  honbur  to  present  to 
your  Majesty  at  the  last  levee  of  the  season." 

^'  Erskine  ?  A  junior  conomissioner  of ^  if  I 

recollect  ? "  rejoined  the  King,  with  his  usual  tena- 
city of  memory. 

Lord  Powderham  bowed  affirmatively ;  adding 
a  few  laudatory  words  concerning  his  professional 
reputation  and  gentlemanly  manners. 

"  Is  he  in  town  ? — ^is  he  come-at-able  ?"  was  the 
eager  reply  of  one  engrossed  at  that  moment  by 
the  desire  to  resolve  his  doubts.  And  on  learning 
from  the  Earl  that  Captain  Erskine  was  at  Somer- 
set House  and  his  Majesty's  orders,  it  was  proposed 
tliat  a  few  lines  and  one  of  the  royal  carriages 
should  bring  him  instantly  to  Carlton  House. 

By  the  express  desire  of  the  King,  no  intimation 
of  the  object  of  tlie  summons  was  to  be  conveyed 
in  the  letter. 

*^  Let  us  have  Captain  Erskine's  unbiassed  state- 
ment—let us  have  his  unassisted  recollections," 
said  the  King ;  and  great  was  the  consternation 
excited  in  consequence  in  the  mind  of  the  aston- 
ished Commissioner,  while  making  a  hasty  toilet, 
to  appear  in  the  royal  presence.  Had  such  an  in- 
cident occurred  at  St  Petersburg,  the  individual 
so  hastily  summoned  would  probably  have  antici- 
pated some  ^ruei^  d  pens — the  knout,  or  impalement. 
As  it  waSyCaptainErskine's  mind  misgave  him,  only 
that  he  might  be  the  dupe  of  a  bold  mystification 
on  the  part  of  some  trifler  of  the  Powderham  clique. 

It  was,  however,  really  into  the  briUiant  draw- 
ing-room of  George  the  Fourth  he  was  ushered  on 
his  arrival ;  and  the  graceful  urbanity  with  which 
the  King,  who  was  taking  his  coffee,  thanked  himfor 
the  promptitude  of  hb  attendance,  and  explained 
to  him  the  object  of  his  presence,  did  hojiour  to  the 
high  breeding  of  the  most  polished  gentleman  in 
Europe,  and  pkced  the  other  instantly  at  ease. 

Fortunately  for  Erskine  the  personages  present, 
so  intimately  connected  with  the  question,  were 
not  known  to  him  by  sight.  The  only  man  in 
the  royal  circle  with  whom  he  was  acquainted, 
was  Lord  Powderham,  whose  presence  served 
rather  to  reassure  him  than  embarrass.  Without  a 
moment's  hesitation,  tlierefore,  he  stated  his  per- 
sonal convictions  on  the  question  in  dispute.  He 
had  been  severely  wounded  on  the  occasion,  and 
had  found  ample  leisure  on  the  bed  of  sickness  to 
examine  and  engrave  on  his  memory  the  details  of 
an  affair,  slight  in  itself,  but  important  in  its  con- 
sequences. As  these  happened  to  coincide,  to  a 
hair,  both  in  point  of  numbers  engaged,  and  the 
manoeuvres  attempted,  with  the  reminiscences  of 
the  King,  a  murmur  of  admiration  and  satisfac- 
tion instantly  arose  in  the  circle.  There  was  no 
disputing  the  testimony  of  so  disinterested  and  cir- 
cumstantial a  witness. 

Needless  were  it  to  add  that  the  King,  delighted 
with  his  own  triumph  and  the  mild  deportment  of 
his  unconscious  champion,  was  strbngly  predis- 
posed in  favour  of  his  accidental  guest.  The 
name  of  Sir  John  Erskine  was  known  to  him,  as 
an  active  Transatlantic  adherent  to  Government 
and  the  Loyalist  cause.  The  answer  of  Captain 
Erskine  to  a  few  inquiries  on  that  and  other 
professional  questions,  completed  the  prepoaset-siuii 


82 


BLANKS  AND  PRIZES. 


of  the  Ring ;  and  no  one  \irho  witnessed  the  intro- 
duction, and  its  resnlts,  was  suTprised  to  find, 
shortly  afterwards,  that  Captain  Erskine  had 
been  bidden  to  the  royal  table. 

On  that  occasion,  the  King,  with  his  nsnal  con- 
sideratenessy  gratified  his  guest  by  again  nuiking 
him  the  referee  of  a  disputed  point  of  the  Penin- 
sular campaigns.  Attributing  to  clearness  of  intel- 
lect the  result  of  mere  letentireness  of  memory. 


his  Majesty  exaggerated  to  himself  the  abilities 
of  his  new  acquaintance;  more  especially  when 
it  transpired,  through  the  friendly  intervention  of 
Lord  Powderham,  that  he  was  one  of  the  best 
whist-players  in  liondon ! 

More  than  one  ambitious  man  about  town 
would  have  given  tens  of  thousands  for  the  gra- 
cious notice  accorded  from  that  moment  to  Cap- 
tain Erskine,  (  To  be  conHmud.) 


THE  LAY  OF  THE  BELL.* 


FROir  THE  OBKMAN  OF  SCHILLER. 


IxpaisoN^D  fast  in  walls  of  earth, 

The  baked-clay  mould  doth  ready  stand, 
To-day  the  Bell  must  have  its  birth  ! 
Up,  mates,  and  lend  a  helping  hand  ! 
From  the  heated  brow. 
Must  the  sweat  flow  now: 
The  work  the  Master  shall  commend. 
The  blessing  must  from  Heaven  descend. 

The  work  we  solemnly  prepare 

An  earnest  oonverse  well  may  grace  ; 
When  toil  kind  words  companion  fair, 

Then  labour  mns  a  merry  race. 
Thus  weigh  we  now — as  fits  the  wise — 

What  by  our  feeble  strength  is  wrought ; 
For  who  would  not  the  wretch  despise 

Machine-like  toiling,  yoid  of  thought  ? 
'Tis  this  adorns  the  human  race, 

For  this — Man's  power  to  understand, 
The  semblance  in  his  heart  to  trace 

Of  all  he  fashions  with  his  hand. 
Wood  of  fir  for  f\iel  take. 

And  the  driest  let  it  be  ; 
That  the  pent-up  flame  may  break 

From  the  furnace,  flerce  and  ft-ee  : 

Smelt  the  copper  in-^ 

Quickly  add  the  tin — 

That  the  viscid  metal  know 

Nothing  to  impede  its  flow. 

What  in  the  hollow  mould  with  power 

Of  aiding  flre  we  fashion  thus, 
Placed  high  within  the  belfry-tower, 

Loud  witness  oft  shall  bear  of  u$  ! 
In  distant  days  its  voice  unfailing 

On  many  a  mortal  ear  shall  fall ; 
Now,  with  the  sorrow-stricken  wailing, 

And  now  Devotion's  tunefhl  call. 
Whatever  below  to  human  breast 

Fate  in  its  changing  course  may  bring. 
Shall  strike  upon  its  metal  crest, 

Which  wide  the  instructive  %(n.m  shall  ring. 
Bubbles  rising  white  I  see  1 

Well  the  mass  is  molten  now  ! 
Thrown  in  let  the  potash  be. 

That  shall  speed  the  vrish'd-for  flow. 
Cleans'd  too  from  all  scum. 
Must  the  mixture  come  ; 
That  of  metal  pure,  the  Bell 
Pure  and  full  its  voice  may  swell. 
For  oft  with  festive  note  of  joy. 

The  darling  child  it  welcomes  in  ; 
What  time  unconsciously  the  Boy 

In  slumber's  arms  doth  life  begin. 
Still  rests  in  lap  of  Time  for  him. 
All  Fate  ordains  of  bright  or  dim, 
The  tender  cares  of  Love  maternal 
Guarding  his  morning  bright  and  vernal ! 
Years  roll  with  arrovry  swiftness  past — 

From  the  Girl  his  play-mate  mild 


Proud  he  now  himself  estranges. 

Into  life  forth  rushes  wild. 
Through  the  world  a  pilgrim  ranges, 

Then  comes  a  stranger  Home  at  last. 
And  dazzling,  in  youth's  sunny  sheen, 
Like  some  bright  vision  of  the  sky. 
With  blushing  cheek,  and  modest  mien 
The  maiden  meets  his  raptured  eye. 
Then  yearns  his  heart  with  nameless  longing: 

Alone  he  strays,  and  silent  weeps; 
And,  far  from  where  his  mates  are  thzonging, 

His  solitary  way  he  keeps  ! 
Blushing,  her  steps  doth  he  pursue  ; 

Blest  if  a  greeting  she  bestow. 
And  culls  each  flower  of  fairest  hne. 
To  wreath  a  garland  for  her  brow. 
O  tender-longing  !  Hope  delighting  ! 

Of  flrst  Love's  birth  the  season  bright ! 
The  eye  sees  Heaven  unfold — inviting — 

The  ghird  heart  revels  in  delight ! 
O  1  might  it  ever  green  remain 
The  beauteous  time  of  young  Love's  reign  ! 
How  the  pipes  now  bronzing  gleam  ! 

In  I  plunge  this  testing  wand ; 
Glassy  if  the  surface  seem, 
For  the  cast  the  time 's  at  hand. 
Now,  my  fHends,  quick  move, 
And  the  compound  prove  ! 
If  the  brittle  well  combine 
With  the  pliant,  good  the  sign. 
For  when  the  stem  with  mild  unites. 
When  strength  its  troth  to  weakness  plight !«, 

The  tone  they  yield  is  clear  and  strong  ; 
Thus  prove  ere  Hymen's  fetters  bind, 
If  heart  with  heart  true  concord  find  ; 
Illusion's  short ;  Repentance  long  ! 
Lovely,  in  the  Bride's  fair  tresses 

Plays  the  virgin  wreath,  what  time 
To  the  nuptial  feast  she  presses, 

Caird  by  merry  church-bell  chime. 
Alas  !  Life's  fairest,  festive  tide 

For  ever  ends  Life's  laughing  May  ; 
With  veil  and  cestus  hud  aside, 
The  bright  Illusion  speeds  away  ! 
Passion  flies  from  the  bosom. 

The  love  lingers  yet, 
Wither'd  falleth  the  blossom, 

The  fruit  it  must  set. 
The  Man  must  forth  wend 
Life's  struggle  to  drive, 
Must  lahour  and  strive. 
Must  plant,  and  must  make. 
By  fraud,  and  strength  take. 
Wager,  risk,  and  importune 
To  chase  down  his  fortune. 
Thereby  flow  in  riches  beyond  count  and  measure. 
The  storehouse  is  fiU'd  to  o'erflowing  with  treasure, 
The  courts  they  enlarge,  the  house  doth  extend  ; 
t  And  therein  presides 


♦  In  this  new  translation  of  the  Lay  of  the  Bell,  the  aim  of  the  transktion  has  less  heen  smoothnesa  and  poetic  mo« 
than  Btnct  fidelity  to  the  spirit  and  letter  of  the  original.  ^ 

.   t  The  non-use  of  rhyme  in  this  and  other  passages,  is  in  strict  accordance  with  the  originaL 


THE  LAY  OF  THE  BELL. 


S3 


The  modest  hcmtwite, 

The  ohildren'a  fbnd  mother. 

And  rales  with  wise  eare 

£ach  household  ailkir, 

And  teaches  the  girls, 

And  oantions  the  boys. 

And  aye  holds  employment 

No  task  bat  enjoyment ; 

And  donbles  the  profit 

By  prudent  use  of  it ; 
Fills  with  treasures  the  presses  whence  firagrance 

breathes, 
Ronnd  the  quick  whirling  spindle  the  flaxen  thread 

wreathes, 
Lajs  up  in  the  chest,  clean,  poUsh*d,  and  bright. 
The  glittering  wool,  and  the  Unen  snow-white. 
And  adds  to  the  household  its  charm  and  grace  oyer, 
And  resteth  neyer ! 

And  the  Father,  with  joyous  smile. 
From  his  wide,  o'er-looking  roof,  the  while, 
Counts  the  blooming  fortune  that  crowns  his  toil; 
Sees  the  young  trees  lifting  high  their  head, 
And  the  bam-fill'd  courts  round  his  dwelling 

spread. 
And  the  granaries  'neath  their  burden  bending. 
And  the  waving  corn-fields  as  seas  extending. 

And  speaks  proud  gratulation  : — 
'  Firm  as  is  the  earth's  foundation, 
Against  Misfortune's  adyerse  hand. 
The  splendour  of  my  house  doth  stand  !  '* 
But  with  the  powers  of  Destiny, 
None  may  a  bond  eternal  tie  ; 
And  comes  Misfortune  hastily. 

Now  the  casting  may  begin, 

Fairly  is  the  breach  indented  ; 
Yet,  before  we  run  it  in, 
Be  a  pious  prayer  presented  ! 
Strike  the  bvng  away  : 
Shield  us.  Heaven,  to-day  ! 
Smoking,  in  the  arched  bound. 
Shoot  the  lurid  flre-wayes  round ! 

Beneficent  the  power  of  Flame, 

While  Man  its  might  may  watch,  and  tame. 

And  all  his  hands,  or  form,  or  frame  : 

He  owes  this  power  from  Heaven  that  came  ; 

Yet  dread  this  power  from  Heaven  that  came. 

If  freedom  from  its  bonds  it  claim, 

Taking  its  track  in  fury  wild. 

Free  Nature's  free  unfetter'd  child  ! 

Woe  !  when,  in  restraint  no  more. 

Nought  to  check  its  fierce  invasion, 
Through  the  streets,  thick  peopled  o'er, 

Rolls  the  giant  conflagration  ; 
For  the  elements  abhor 
The  works  of  Man's  creation  ! 

Out  of  the  cloud 

Wells  the  rich  dew. 

Streams  the  rain  too  : 

Out  of  the  cloud  alike 

The  lightnings  strike  ! 
Hear  ye  it  wail  ftt)m  belfry  high  ? 

Storm  is  nigh  1 

Blood-red  now 

Is  Heaven  become. 
That  is  not  day's  orient  glow. 

What  busy  hum 

Hound  extends ! 

Steam  ascends ! 
Flaring,  the  colnnm'd  flames  mount  the  sky, 
Through  the  streets  that  in  long  vistas  lie, 
Sweeping  vrith  speed  of  tempest  by  ! 
As  from  furnace  depths  profound. 
Melting,  glow  the  heavens  around. 
Rafters  sink,  with  crashing  sound  ; 
Windows  rattle,  beams  give  way, 
Quldren  wail,  wild  mothers  stray ; 

Beasts  howl  distress'd, 

'Neath  ruins  prese'd ; 


Distracted,  eaeh  ranfl,  Msodes,  flies ! 
Lighted  like  day  night's  sombre  skies  ! 
Through  the  long  chain  of  hands  link'd  fabt. 

Emulous  pass'd. 
High  in  air  the  bucket  goes  ; 
Forth  its  flood  the  engine  throws  ! 
Howling,  comes  the  storm  let  loose. 
Rushing  to  the  fire  it  speeds  1 
Crackling  in  the  well-dried  seeds, 
Into  the  granary  bursts  the  fiame. 
Into  the  spars'  time-season'd  fhime  ; 
And,  as  strove  it  in  its  might. 
The  earth,  ttom  her  foundation  strong. 
To  tear  in  its  vrild  fiight  along, 
Towering  grows  it  in  Heaven^  height. 

Giant  high ! 

Hopeless  by. 
Yielding  his  god-like  strength,  Man  standti. 
And  sees  the  labours  of  his  hands, 
Idly  wondering,  sink  from  sight. 
Desolate 

The  fair  homestead. 
Of  wild  storms  the  barren  bed. 
In  the  windows'  vaoant  space. 

Horror  finds  place ; 
And  the  scudding  clouds  fh>m  Heaven's  face 

Peer  therein  I 

Ere  he  goes. 

Back  to  the  grave 

Of  all  wealth  gave 
Yet  one  look  the  Master  throws  ; 
Then  joyfdl  grasps  the  pilgrim's  stave. 
Whate'er  from  him  the  fire  hath  reft. 
One  comfort  sweet  remains  to  bless  : 
He  counts  his  loved  ; — O,  happiness  ! 
Still  perfect  that  dear  number 's  left ! 
Now  hath  earth  received  the  Bell, 

Fair  the  mould  the  metals  fill : 

Will  it  forth  to-day  spring  well. 

Crowning  industry  and  skill ! 

If  the  casting  fail. 

If  the  mould  prove  firail, 
Alas  !  perchance,  e'en  in  the  thing 
We  hope,  already  grief  may  sting  ! 
Unto  the  lap  of  sacred  earth, 
We  trust  our  hand-accomplish'd  deed  ; 

The  sower,  too,  intrusts  his  seed. 
And  hopes  to  see  its  second  birth, 

If  Heaven  his  work  with  blessing  speed  : 
Yet  costlier  seed,  a  dearer  prize. 

Sorrowing,  we  hide  in  earth's  dark  breast. 
And  hope  'twill  from  the  coffin  rise 
To  bloom  again  in  state  more  blest. 

From  the  steeple 

Tolls  the  Bell, 

Heavy  and  sad 

The  fhneral  knell ! 
Solemn,  accompanying,  with  monnftal  boom, 
A  pilgrim  journeying  to  the  last,  long  home. 
Ah  !  it  is  the  wife — the  loved  one — 
Ah  !  it  is  the  ^thful  Mother, 
That  the  Prince  of  Shades  to-day 
From  the  husband  bears  away — 
From  the  troop  of  children  fair. 
That  she  blooming  to  him  bare, 
That  upon  her  faithful  breast 
Growing  saw  she,  and  was  blest. 
Ah !  the  tender  ties  of  home 

Broken  are  for  ever  there^— 
For  she  dwelleth  in  the  tomb, 

Who  the  name  of  mother  bare  ! 
For  no  more,  her  kind  providing — 

Shields  she  now  no  more  fh}m  danger ; 
O'er  the  orphan'd  house  presiding. 

Loveless  now  will  rale  the  stranger ! 
Till  the  Bell  hath  cool'd,  a  space 

Let  our  arduous  labour  rest ; 
As  the  bird  in  greenwood  plays, 
Sport  may  each  as  likes  him  best. 


SA 


THE  LAY  OF  THE  BELL. 


With  the  setting  san 

Labour's  task  ie  done. 
The  workman  rests  when  respers  chime, 
The  Master  knows  no  resting  time ! 

Cheerfully  the  wanderer  quickens 

Far  in  forest  wild  his  step 
To  hisioTed  cot  as  night  thickens. 
Bleating  homeward  draw  the  sheep  ; 
And  the  oxen 

Broad  of  brow  and  sleek  of  skin. 
Follow  lowing, 

To  the  stalls  accnstom'd  going. 
Heavily 

Rolls  in  the  wain 
Laden  with  grain ; 
Of  Tarted  dye 
The  wreath  on  high 
Lieth  fkir ; 

Aild  the  dance,  the  youthful  reapers 
Fly  to  share ; 
Streets  and  markets  silent  grow ; 
Round  the  bright  hearth's  social  flame 
Meet  the  inmates  of  the  house ; 
And  the  city  gate  shuts  creaking. 
With  darkness  drear 
Cover'd  is  earth. 
Yet  the  burgher  safe  no  fear 

Hath  of  night. 
Which  wakes  the  bad  to  crime's  career; 
For  knows  he,  watching  is  the  Law's  quick  sight. 

Hail,  holy  Order  I  blessing  all, 
Banghter  of  Heaven !  that  with  mild  thrall 
Equal  to  equal  binds  secure. 
That  founds  the  growing  city  sure. 
That  oall'd  within  its  walls  to  dwell 
The 'savage  wild  from  wood  and  fell, 
Euter'd  benign  Man's  rude  abode, 
And  life's  amenities  bestow'd. 
And  wove  that  dearest  holiest  band 
The  impulse  unto  fatherland. 

Move  a  thohsaind  hands  untiring. 

Each  to  each  his  aid  imparts. 
Now  affording,  now  requiring. 

Every  power  to  action  starts. 
Man  and  master  fearless  rest 

tinder  Freedom's  sure  defence  ; 
Each  one  in  his  station  blest 

Scorns  the  soomer's  insolence; 
Labour  decks  the  burgher  best; 

Blessing  on  exertion  waits, 
Honours  kings  the  purple  vest, — 

Ujtf  the  thing  our  hand  creates. 

Peace  and  Concord,  gentle  pair. 

Linger,  linger 
Friendly  o'er  this  city  fikir. 

Never  may  thte  day  appear 
When  the  savage  hordes  of  war 

Shall  through  this  still  valley  rage ! 
When  the  heavens. 

Which  the  tender  glow  of  eve 
Painteth  fair. 

Shall  firom  burning  town  and  hamlet 
Redden  with  abhorrent  glare ! 

Now,  the  mould  asunder  strike ! 

Served  its  end,  its  use  hath  ceased, 
Tliat  both  heart  and  eye  alike 
On  the  prosper'd  work  may  feast. 
Wield  the  hammer!  wield  ! 
Till  the  cover  yield  : 
Ere  the  Bell  its  form  unfold 
Fall  in  fragments  must  the  mould. 

With  dext'rous  hand  to  break  the  same,  . 

At  fitting  time  the  master  Imows ; 
But  woe  !  if  forth,  in  streams  of  flame 

Self-freed,  the  glowing  metal  flows  ! 
Blind,  raging,  vnth  the  thunder's  ycH, 

Th^  house  the  fierce  explosion  reuds  ; 


And  as  from  open  jaws  of  UelT, 

Wide  round  its  fiery  ruin  sends. 
Where  powers  nntutor'd  senseless  reign, 

There  can  no  lasting  work  remain  ; 
When  wild— themselves  the  nations  free, 

Then  cannot  bide  prosperity. 
Woe  I  when  within  the  city's  heart 

Grows  disaffection  to  the  laws  ; 
Rending  their  chains,  the  people  start, 

Themselves  the  champions  of  their  cause  ! 
Then  Uproar  tugging  at  the  string. 

The  Bell  proclaims  the  tumult  far  ; 
And  dedicate  to  Peace,  must  ring 

The  note  of  strife,  the  call  of  War. 
Freedom  !  Equality  !  the  word  ; 

The  burgher  arms  him  at  the  sound  ; 
In  streets  and  halls  the  people  herd, 

And  banded  murderers  march  around. 
Then  woman  yields  her  angel  mood. 

Hyena-like  with  hideous  jest. 
And  panther's  savage  thirst  of  blood. 

To  tear  the  heart  from  foeman's  breast. 
Nothing  is  holy  more,  each  tie 
Is  broken  now  of  pious  awe ; 
The  good  before  the  wicked  fly, 

And  Vice  supreme  itself  is  law. 
Dread  springs  the  lion  from  his  lair. 

The  tiger's  fang  spreads  wide  eonfrision ; 
But  fearfulest  of  all  we  fear. 

Is  Man  himself  in  his  illusion ! 
Woe  1  woe  to  them  who  madly  lend 

The  torch  unto  the  blind  man's  hand  : 
It  lights  not  him — ^it  can  but  send 

Fierce  conflagration  through  the  land. 
Joy  hath  Heaven  vouchsafed  to  me ; 

See,like  golden  star,  the  Bell, 
Smooth  and  polish'd  as  may  be, 
Casteth  now  its  prison  shell. 
From  crest  to  lip  gleams, 
As  of  bright  sunbeams, 
And  the  scutcheons  moulded  truly 
Praise  the  skilful  maker  duly. 
Here,  Comrades,  here. 

Close  round,  that  consecrate  we  may 
The  Bell  with  baptism  to-day  ; 

And  ConcoxM  be  the  name  't  shall  bear! 
To  Unity  and  brotherhood  of  Will, 
A  loving  people  may  it  gather  still ! 
And  this  be  ever  its  vocation, 
(  For  'iwas  for  this  it  had  creation  ;) 
High  o'er  the  life  of  earth,  far  under. 
Dwelling  in  heaven's  blue  canopy, 
To  saving  the  neighbour  of  the  thunder ; 

And  bordering  on  the  starry  sky. 
To  strike  as  voice  from  heaven  the  soul. 
Like  the  sweet  music  of  the  spheres. 
That  praise  their  Maker  as  they  roll, 
Leading  along  the  wreathed  years. 
To  solemn  and  eternal  things 

Be  dedicate  alone  its  chime ; 
And  hourly,  as  it  restless  swings. 

Proclaim  it  still  the  flight  of  time. 
Heartless  itself,  and  dead  to  feeling, 

0!  may  it  lend  a  voice  to  Fate ; 
And  ever  with  its  solemn  pealing 

Companion  Life's  still  changing  state. 
And  as  the  notes  that  from  it  swell 
Loud  toning,  die  upon  the  ear, — 
That  nought  is  lasting  let  it  tell. 

That  all  things  fade,  and  wither  here  I 
Now,  with  strength  of  cords,  on  high 

From  its  cUy-bed  lift  the  Bell ; 
That  it  mount  the  azure  sky 
in  the  realm  of  sound  to  dwell. 
Pull  your  hardest  I  raise ! 
Now  it  moves— it  sways — 
O !  bode  it  to  this  city  joy, 
And  Peace  its  first  glad  Iiote^  employ  ! 
Norember  Irf,  I8i;j.  (;,  jj,  |^, 


85 


TYTLER^S  HISTORY  OF  SCOTLAND.* 


Mr.  Tytlbr's  leaders  will,  we  are  persuaded, 
pirticipale  in  thoae  feelings  of  mingled  regret  and 
gntitnde  with  which  he  teUs  them  he  now  closes 
**  the  labours  of  eighteen  years ;"  years  passed  in 
the  tranquil  pleasures  of  historicad  inyestigation 
and  **  dsYoted  to  the  pursuit  of  truth."  This  grati- 
tude springs  fo>m  the  purest  and  the  highest 
sonrce ;  and  rises  to  the  Giver  of  all  Good,  that 
life  and  health  have  been  spared  him  to  complete 
his  arduous  undertaking.  Nor  can  it  be  without 
gr&tefid  feelings  of  another  kind,  that  the  author 
looks  back  upon  his  finished  work  ;  on  the  noble 
monument  which  he  has,  through  so  long  a  term 
of  years,  patiently  and  diligently  piled,  and  which 
most  henceforth  entwine  his  name  with  the  liter- 
ature and  the  history  of  his  country. 

The  world  has  undeigone  important  changes 
nnoe  this  work  was  projected,  some  of  which  are, 
we  think,  reflected  in  its  pages.  One  of  the  most 
msiked  of  these  changes  is  the  rapid  ascendancy 
of  the  Democratic  principle ;  of  the  **  rascal  pole- 
itmag  Commons  J*  The  "  yidgar  sort."  hare  erery- 
^hen,  and  even  under  the  most  despotic  govem- 
meots,  become  of  more  account.  One  consequence 
of  this  is,  that  the  Historian  dives  deeper  into 
the  heart  of  the  sodal  system  in  looking  for 
the  springs  of  events.  He  is  no  longer  contented, 
u  of  old,  with  merely  skinmiing  the  surface  of 
society,  or  resting  on  its  prouder  eminences.  He 
peroeires  mighty  causes  silently  at  work,  which 
have  hitherto  passed  with  but  sUght  attention,  un- 
til, like  the  French  revolution,  revealed  in  their 

tremendous  results. The  style,  or  rather  spirit, 

of  modem  History,  at  least  as  it  is  exemplified  in 
the  pages  of  Mr.  Tytler,  and  especially  in  his 
later  volumes,  has  also  become  more  racy  and 
ptctoresque.  If  the  novelists  have,  of  late,  invaded 
the  province  of  the  Historians,  the  latter  have,  on 
the  other  hand,  learned  something  of  dramatic 
effect  from  the  pages  of  Historical  Romance.  In- 
^ead  of  the  brief  details  and  masterly  generalisa- 
tions of  Hume,  or  the  stately,  resonant  periods  of 
I^bertson  s  narrative,  we  have,  in  Mr.  Tytler  s 
History,  without  any  sacrifice  of  recondite  thought 
or  purity  of  style,  more  graphic  force,  a  closer  appeal 
to  fact,  and  a  firmer  reliance  on  the  naked  truth 
of  character  and  circumstance.  We  see  events 
Pwang,  not  in  the  dressed-up  narrative  of  a  dis- 
t4nt  third  party,  but  as  nearly  as  possible  as  they 
fetoally  appeared  to  the  spectators,  or  to  the  actors 
IB  the  scenes  described.  We  are  adniitted  behind  the 
«cntt,  to  see  how  passion  and  interest  animate 
*nd  mfluenoe  men  of  all  degrees ;  and  by  what 
*J»nge  motives,  or  with  how  "  little  wisdom  "  and 
forethought,  the  world  is  governed.  A  troubled 
and  nnmly  world  was  that  same  brave,  old  world 
of  Scotland  down  to  the  period  at  which  Mr. 
'I>tkr  takes  leave  of  it ;  when  the  death  of  Eliza- 
"«th,  by  opening  the  succession  to  the  crown  of 
England  to  James  VI.,  blended  the  future  history 


•VohmtIX.8To,pp.  446. 

^"-  XI.— 50.  CXXII. 


Edinhaigh!:  Tait, 


of  the  rival  and  hostile  kingdoms.  Mr.  Tytler's 
work,  closing  with  this  period,  possesses  a  second- 
ary, and  yet  important  value  to  the  reflecting  stu- 
dent of  history,  from  furnishing  one  of  the  most 
complete  pictures  of  society  in  a  particular  stage 
of  progression  that  can  be  obtained.  Change  but  the 
names,  and  sliift  the  scene  from  Scotland  and  the 
Scottish  Court  in  the  fourteenth,  fifteenth,  and 
sixteenth  centuries,  to  A£Fghanistan  and  Cabul  at 
this  moment,  and  the  annals  of  both  countries 
become,  in  their  great  features,  almost  identical.  A 
feudal  monarch,  however  able  and  intrepid  he  might 
personally  be,  contending,  often  hopelessly,  against 
his  unruly  and  powerful  chiefs  and  barons,  whom 
he  could  only  manage  by  playing  ofi^  against  each 
other  those  passions  of  ambition,  revenge,  and  rapa- 
city, whichkept  the  noblesat perpetual  feud  amongst 
themselves ;  and  a  country  distracted  and  im- 
poverished by  their  oppression  and  their  quarrels, 
and  the  feebleness  of  the  supreme  power ;  of  the 
LaWy  as  represented  by  the  sovereign.  The  Feudal 
principle,  in  its  early  stages,  is  not  more  forcibly 
illustrated  in  the  history  of  any  nation  than  in  the 
annals  of  Scotland  during  the  reigns  of  the  Stuarts ; 
nor  yet  the  policy  by  which  a  stronger  and  better^ 
ordered  commonwealth,  in  irksome  relation  with 
a  poor,  unruly,  and  troublesome  neighbour,  con- 
trives to  keep  her  in  a  state  of  perpetual  alarm 
and  disquietude.  Throughout  the  entire  reign  of 
Elizabeth,  it  was  the  base  maxim  of  her  govern- 
ment, that  internal  peace  in  Scotland  was  immi- 
nent peril  to  England.  Ireland  is  very  much  at 
the  present  day  what  Scotland  was  to  England 
during  the  reign  of  Elizabeth,  and  in  the  feeble 
nonage  of  the  Reformation  principle.  It  was  by 
ZZntofi  that  the  peace  and  welfare  of  both  kingdoms 
were  finally  secured, — ^by  the  union  of  the  crowns, 
followed  by  a  union  of  the  kingdoms. 

Though  we  think  that  Mr.  Tytler  has  both  picto- 
rialized  and  moralized  History  in  a  spirit  that  belongs 
to  our  own  period,  and  in  so  doing  raised  its  character 
as  a  general  instructor,  besides  rendering  it  more 
attractive  ;  it  is  probable  that  his  main  distinctive 
attribute  as  an  Historian,  will  be  considered  his 
systematic  rejection  of  all  second-hand  testimony, 
however  high  its  authority ;  and  his  simple  reli- 
ance on  the  truth  as  he  found  it  at  first-hand, 
revealed  to  his  patient  and  unwearied  research  in 
those  voluminous  original  documents  which  had 
either  remained  unexamined  for  centuries,  or  had 
been  examined  very  imperfectly.  This  is  a  solid 
and  indefeasible  claim ;  and  one  which,  in  Mr. 
Tytler's  case,  admits  of  no  dispute ;  as  eveiy  page 
bears  testimony  to  its  validity. 

We  may  be  influenced,  unconsciously  however, 
by  the  spirit  of  our  own  age,  when  we  consider 
the  new  style  of  writing  the  annals  of  nations, 
which  has  been  adopted  and  indeed  in  part  in- 
vented by  Mr.  Tytler,  as  more  congenial  to 
''  men's  business  and  bosoms"  than  the  elaborate 
compositions  of  what  may  be  called  the  Classical 
School  of  History  ;  and  in  imagining  the  familiar 


86 


TYTLER'S  HISTORY  OP  SCOTLAND. 


and  life-like  ^'  Tales  of  a  Grandfather,"  quite  as  fiill 
of  instruction  as  more  grave  and  ornate  produc- 
tions. This  isy  after  all,  a  matter  of  taste ;  but 
not  so  the  new  facts,  and  new  documents,  origi- 
nating new  views  of  character,  and  pointing  to 
probable  motives  of  action  not  before  suspected, 
which  have  been  dragged  into  light  by  Mr.  Tyt- 
ler.  We  may  illustrate  our  idea  of  the  classical 
and  the  modem  mode  of  writing  History,  and  at 
the  same  time  vindicate  our  preference  of  the  lat- 
ter,— of  the  familiar,  graphic,  and  picturesque,— 
by  pointing  to  the  original  letters  of  Elizabeth, 
now  first  printed  in  the  Appendix  to  this  volume, 
and  which  are  replete  with  individuality ;  and  those 
letters  which  have  long  been  before  the  world, 
written  offioiaUy  on  the  same  business  by  her  min- 
isters, and  only  bearing  her  signature. 

Mr.  Tytler's  eighth  volume  closed  with  the  tragi- 
cal execution  of  Queen  Mary.  At  the  opening  of 
this  volume  the  character  of  Elizabeth  becomes,  if 
possible,  more  odious  to  the  reader,  from  the  deep 
dissimulation  (with  which  some  remorse  might 
have  mingled)  which  she  practised  on  receiving 
accounts  of  the  rival  queen's  death ;  and  from  her 
severity  and  perfidy  to  her  tools  and  instruments 
in  that  catastrophe.  How  nobly — the  most  bigoted 
Tory  must  allow— stands  out  the  conduct  of  the 
Regicides  throughout  the  troubles  and  the  trial 
and  execution  of  Charles  the  First,  when  con- 
trasted with  the  baseness  of  Queen  Elizabeth 
and  her  ministers  to  the  long-marked  and  long- 
pursued  victim  of  her  suspicion  and  jealousy! 
Truth  was  as  incompatible  with  the  functions  of 
sovereignty  in  those  times,  as  it  is  to  be  feared 
frankness  and  sincerity  must  be  in  courts  at  all 
times.  Mr.  Tytler*s  History,  like  every  other  his- 
tory, whatever  opinion  it  may  leave  of  the  value 
of  the  Institution  of  Monardiy,  does  not  in  any 
case  recommend  the  individuals  doomed  to  enact 
the  part  of  monarch  either  to  the  reader's  affections 
or  esteem. 

The  duplicity  of  Elizabeth  failed  for  once. 
Scotland  and  Europe  held  her  guilty  of  the  mur- 
der at  which  she  affected  so  much  indignation  and 
horror.  In  Scotland  the  intelligence  was  received 
with  universal  indignation  and  open  threats  of  re- 
venge ;  but  the  feeling  seems  to  have  evaporated 
in  words  where  other  interests  were  not  involved 
in  the  quarrel.  The  party  most  deeply  interested 
by  affection  and  by  honour,  the  young  king,  self- 
iidily  delighted  with  the  assurance  of  undivided 
sovereignty,  even  suffered,  according  to  Bfr.  Tytler, 
some  expressions  of  satisfaction  to  escape  him ; 
which  his  wily  chief  minister.  Secretary  Mait- 
land,  thought  it  right  should  only  reach  the  most 
confidentiid  ears.  The  proud  and  fierce  Border 
chiefs,  and  the  Catholic  lords  of  the  north,  were 
more  in  earnest,  as  was  proved  in  some  desperate 
forays  and  many  threats  of  vengeance. 

Secretary  Maitland,  afterwards  Chancellor,  was 
themost  distinguished  andinfluential  Scottish  states- 
man of  this  period  ;  and  Mr.  Tytler  has  bestowed 
remarkable  pains  in  elaborating  that  mixed  char- 
acter in  which  bad  moral  elements  greatly  pre- 
ponderated; although  Maitland  certainly  possessed 
many  solid  and  useful  qualities,    Elizabeth  could 


not  at  this  time  afford  to  quarrel  with  Scoiknd,  h&d 
an  open  course  of  policy  ever  been  her  object  in  the 
country  which  she  always  aimed  to  divide,  in  oidei 
to  govern.  The  Armada  was  gathering  in  Spain ; 
the  ports  of  Flanders  rang  wi^  the  din  of  prepu- 
ation;  and  Ireland  wa%  as  ever,  when  danger 
menaces  England,  on  the  eve  of  a  rebellion.  Bat 
this,  the  Rebellion  of  Tyrone,  afterwards  proved 
one  of  the  most  formidable  of  those  endless  mo?«* 
ments.  The  genius  or  good  genius  of  Elizabeth, 
or  of  England  and  of  Frotestaiotism,  onoe  men 
triumphed.  The  Armada  was  dispersed,  ths 
Guises  assassinated,  and  Elizabeth  found  herself 
at  liberty  to  retract  or  forget  the  lavish  promisee 
by  which  in  the  moment  of  danger  she  had  pur- 
chased the  amity  and  assistance  of  the  King  of 
Scots,  and  inspired  him  with  fresh  zeal  against  his 
rebellious  subjects,  the  Catholic  lords.  They  had 
been  encouraging  Spain  to  attack  England  thiough 
Scotland ;  promising  Philip  and  the  Duke  of  Panna 
that  the  moment  a  descent  was  made,  they  would 
join  them  with  a  body  of  troops  which  ihould 
overwhelm  Elizabeth.  This  may  serve  as  an  in- 
troduction to  an  illustrative  extract. 

Against  this  [the  invaBioii]  there  was  little  to  oppon : 
for  the  Soottish  king  and  the  Kirk  were  on  bad  temui;  ud 
the  Chancellor  Maitland,  the  only  man  of  statesmanlike 
views,  although  in  heart  a  Protestant  and  a  fHend  to 
England,  lived  in  hourly  dread  of  assassination  by  Both- 
weU,  or  some  of  his  desperate  associates.  Under  saeh 
trying  oircnmstances,  it  says  something  ibr  the  King  «f 
Soots  that  he  resisted  the  high  offers  made  to  him  at 
this  crisis  by  foreign  princes,  declared  himself  the  de- 
termined opponent  of  Spain,  resolved  to  support  the  re- 
formed opinions,  and  codperated  cordially  with  the 
Queen  of  England.  He  assured  Elizabeth  that  she  could 
not  detest  more  deeply  than  himself  the  plots  of  the 
Papists ;  that  none  of  the  messengers  of  Antiebrist, 
their  common  enemy,  should  be  encouraged  ;  and  thit 
lus  single  reason  for  suspending  their  nsual  loving  intel- 
ligence was  a  feeUng  that  she  had  fUled  to  Tindieate 
herself  ftom  the  guilt  of  his  mother's  blood.  To  prote 
his  sincerity  against  the  Catholics,  he  summoned  bii 
forces,  attacked  the  Castle  of  Lochmaben  belonzing  to 
Lord  Maxwell,  who  had  now  assumed  the  title  of  Mo^ 
ton,  and,  reinforced  by  an  English  battering^tnun,  best 
the  castle  about  the  ears  of  its  captain,  David  Maxwell, 
whom  he  hanged  with  six  of  his  men.  This  spiiiisDd 
severity  enchanted  Elisabeth ;  and  die  forthwith  de- 
spatched Mr.  William  Ashby  to  the  Scottish  court  with  her 
thanks  and  congratulations.  But  the  ambassador  pro- 
mised fkr  more  than  the  queen  had  the  least  intention 
of  perfbrming.  His  royal  mistress,  he  said,  was  ready 
to  settle  a  duchy  on  her  good  brother,  with  a  yeaily 
pension  of  five  thousand  pounds.  She  would  immediately 
raise  for  him  a  body-guard  of  fifty  Scottish  gentlemen ; 
and,  to  meet  the  danger  of  a  revolt  by  the  Popish  lords 
on  tiie  approach  of  the  Armada,  she  would  levy  a  eorpe 
of  a  hundred  horse  and  a  hundred  inftntry  to  a«t  spoa 
the  Borders. 

But  the  danger  passed  over ;  and  Elizabeth  wss 
ever  as  dexterous  at  forgetting  promises  as  oppo^ 
tune  in  making  them. 

James  now  naturally  looked  for  the  perfermance  of 
her  promises;  but  he  was  cruelly  disappointed.  With 
the  cessation  of  alarm,  Elizabeth's  deep-rooted  habits  of 
parsimony  revived :  the  promised  duchy  with  its' princely 
revenue,  the  annual  pension,  the  intended  body-gaaid, 
the  English  auxiliaries  to  act  upon  the  Borders,  melted 
awayi  and  were  no  more  heard  of : — ^Ashby,  the  ambas- 
sador, it  was  alleged,  had  much  exceeded  his  instrno- 
tions;  and  the  king,  in  great  wrath,  complained  that  be 
had  been  dandled  and  duped  like  a  Doy.  These  irritated 
feelings  were  encooraged  by  the  l^anidi  faction.  Many 


TYTLBR'S  HISTORY  OP  SCOTLAND. 


sr 


lagei  th6  king  to  seek  rerenge.  Bothwell,  erer  anxious 
fbr  broils,  boasted  that,  without  charging  his  master  a 
fiuthiag,  he  would  bleed  Elizabeth's  ezoheqner  at  the 
nte  (it  two  hundred  tiionsand  crowns  a^year,  or  lay  the 
country  waste  to  the  gates  of  Newcastle.  The  more 
iDoderate  party  hardly  dared  to  advise;  and  the  Chan- 
cellor Bfaitland,  hitherto  the  firm  friend  of  England, 
foond  himself  compelled  to  unite  with  Hnntly,  The 
character  of  the  young  prince,  and  the  dangerous  and 
DDsettled  state  of  Scotland  at  this  time,  were  strikingly 
described  by  Fowler  in  one  of  his  letters  to  WaJsingham. 
He  found  James,  he  said,  a  rirtuons  prince,  stained  by 
so  rice,  and  singularly  acute  in  the  discussion  of  all  mas- 
ters of  state;  but  indolent  and  csmless,  and  so  utterly 
proftise,  that  he  gaye  to  etery  suitor,  eren  to  Tain  youths 
and  proud  Ibols,  whaterer  they  desired.  He  did  not 
scrapie  to  throw  away,  in  this  manner,  eyen  the  lands  of 
his  crown;  and  so  reckless  was  he  of  wealth,  that,  in 
Fowler's  opinion,  if  he  were  to  get  a  million  from  £^- 
lind,  it  would  all  go  the  same  way.  His  pleasures  were 
hunting,  of  which  he  waft  passionately  fbnd;  and  playing 
at  tlie  mawe,  an  English  game  of  chance,  in  which  he 
piqued  himself  on  excelling.  In  his  dress  he  was  sloyenly, 
lod  his  court  and  household  were  shabby  and  unkingly; 
hot  he  sat  often  in  council,  was  punctual  in  his  religious 
dQtiefl,not  missing  the  sermons  thrice  a-week;  and  his 
BMnera  betrayed  no  haughtiness  or  pride.  It  was  evi- 
dent to  Fowler  that  he  detested  the  rude  and  ferocious 
hewng  of  his  great  nobles,  who  were  content  to  obey 
him  ht  trifles,  bat  in  all  serious  matters,  touching  life  or 
JMtiee,took  the  law  into  their  own  hands,  and  openly 
deled  him.  Upon  this  subject  Fowler's  expressions 
were  reinariahle.  When  it  came  to  the  execution  of 
;*tice,  it  was  evident,  he  said,  his  subjects  feared  him 
Ml,  wHfet  he  was  terrified  to  deal  with  so  many  at 
once,  looking  tremblingly  to  the  fate  of  his  ancestors,  of 
whom  such  as  attempted  to  execute  justice  with  severity, 
were  uniformly  pnt  to  death  by  their  nobles. 

James  at  this  period  had  not  long  attained  his  ma^ 
jority.  In  ennniog  he  had  been  an  early  proficient]; 
sod  though  always  dkhonesty  hu  nnderstanding  ex- 
panded with  his  years  and  experience  of  affairs.  He 
was  indeed  one  of  the  most  singular  mixtures  of  saga- 
city and  imbecility,  spirit  and  pusillanimity,  that 
erer  wore  a  cro^m.  Unlike  what  is  alleged  of  his 
pandson  Charles  II.,  his  actions  were  often  marked 
by  more  wisdom  than  his  words.  But  in  this  tumul- 
tuaiy  period  of  his  reign,  he  owed  much  to  the  saga- 
cious counsels  and  firmness  of  his  chancellor,  Mait- 
land;  and  he  was  also  sometimes  made  a  hero  in 

T>iteof  himself. A  lull  following  the  crushing  of 

the  Catholic  Lords,  (the  Earls  of  Huntly  and  Errol, 
aided  by  the  turbulent  Bothwell,)  enabled  the 
young  king  to  perform  the  gallant  and  chivalrous 
«xploit  of  going  to  Denmark  to  claim,  despite  the 
wnaflness  of  her  tocher^  the  royal  bride  whom  the 
MTious  winds  and  waves  had  ^conspired  to  keep 
ftom  his  embraces.  All  Mr.  Tytler's  veneration 
for  royalty  cannot  save  him  from  perpetrating 
Jere  and  there  a  gentle  joke  at  the  expense  of 
**G«ntle  King  Jamie  ;*  followed  by  others  at  the 
^kj  which  the  historian  admires  even  less  than 
*e  king.  The  young  Queen  of  Scotland's  corona- 
^m  took  phMe  not  long  after  the  royal  pair 
reached  Edinburgh,  and  was  performed  on  a  scale 
"f  onnsual  magnificence ; — 

Oily  douded  by  a  dispute  between  the  king  and  the 
^,on  tlw  subject  of  "anointing ;"  a  ceremony  repre- 
sented on  the  side  of  the  Puritans  as  Jewish,  papal,  and 
«omm^ly  superstitions—on  the  other,  as  Christian,holy, 
•MUttohc  The  royal  arguments,  however,  were  en- 
loreedby  atfareat  that  one  of  the  bishops  should  be  sent 
wr.  Tht  dread  of  this  worse  profanation  procured  the 
««tttton  of  the.lesser:  the  ceremony  was  allowed  to  pro- 


ceed according  to  the  king's  wishes ;  and,  to  use  the  i 
expression  of  a  contemporary,  **  the  Countess  of  Mar, 
having  taken  the  queen's  right  arm,  and  opened  tibe 
eraigi  of  her  gown,  Mr.  Robert  Bruce  immediately 
pound  forth  upon  those  parts  of  her  breast  and  arm  of 
quhilk  the  clothes  were  removed,  a  bonny  quantity  of  oiL** 

Anne  of  Denmark's  triumphal  entiy  into  her  capi- 
tal far  out-did  that  of  Queen  Victoria  the  other 
year ;  the  worthy  merchants  and  burgesses  having 
had  ^lU  time  and  scope  for  due  preparation,  and  the 
display  of  their  splendour.  Kings  and  queens 
now-a-days  are  acting  wisely  in  trying  to  diminish 
the  senseless  prostration  of  Uieir  worshippers ;  and 
it  is  full  time. 

Acting  under  the  counsels  of  Maitland,  James^ 
after  his  marriage,  resolved  on  energetic  measures 
to  restrain  his  turbulent  barons  and  extend  and 
consolidate  the  influence  of  the  Crown.  His  first 
decided  measure  was  the  attempt  to  seize  the  Laird 
of  Niddry,  a  lesser  baron,  protected  by  BoUiwell ; 
which,  though  the  man  escaped,  showed  that  the 
king  was  in  earnest.  This  spirited  act,  and  the  new 
regulations  in  giving  audience  at  the  palace,  now 
first  adopted  by  James,  gave  deep  offence  to  a 
haughty  nobility;  every  one  of  whom  fancied 
himself  quite  as  good  a  man  as  his  prince.  New 
conspiracies  were  formed,  which  had,  however, 
the  good  effect  of  drawing  the  councils  of  Eliza- 
beth and  James  more  into  unity.  Elizabeth  was 
besides,  at  this  time,  as  much  teased  and  exasperated 
by  the  encroachments  of  the  Puritans  as  James  was 
afflicted  by  those  of  the  Kirk  ministers.  In  the  in- 
tervals of  more  serious  affairs,  the  king  found  leis- 
ure to  amuse  himself  by  hunting  up  witches ;  an 
amusement  which,  if  sport  to  hhn,  was  too  often 
death  to  them.  Our  enlightened  age, — in  whidi 
learned  and  respectable  men  openly  profess  be- 
lief in  the  wildest  alleged  phenomena  of  mes- 
merism, and  settle  a  man's  moral  and  intellec- 
tual character,  if  not  from  the  witch-marks  seen 
in  his  eyes  or  found  on  other  parts  of  his  body, 
as  did  ike  witch-finders  of  the  sixteenth  century, 
then  from  certain  bumps  or  hoUows  on  his 
skull, — ^has  no  right  whatever  to  be  severe  in  judg- 
ment on  King  James  and  his  darker  age.  A 
certain  witch,  named  Barbara  Napier,  being  "  a 
woman  well  connected,"  was  on  her  triid  acquitted, 
where  a  poor  unfriended  crone  whom  the  king 
wished  to  find  guilty,  would  too  probably  have 
been  summarily  condemned.  He  was  enraged,  and 
strained  law  and  justice  on  another  witch-trial,  in 
which,  after  the  fashion  of  Alfred,  or  '^  Fergus  thd 
first  of  our  kings,"  he  sate,  sole  and  supreme,  admin- 
istering justice  as  judge  and  jury.  The  poor  wretches 
arraigned,  pleaded  guilty,  and  came  in  the  king's 
mercy ;  and  the  monarch  made  a  most  character- 
istic speech ;  one,  indeed,  much  better  than  any 
dramatist,  or  novelist,  could  have  invented  for  him, 
and  to  introduce  which  we  have  mentioned  the 
trial: — 

Alluding  to  the  shocking  state  of  the  country  and  the 
prevalence  of  crimes,  ^  I  must  advertise  you,"  said  he, 
^  what  it  is  that  makes  great  crimes  to  be  so  rife  in  this 
country  ;  namely,  that  all  men  set  themselves  more  for 
friend  than  for  justice  and  obedience  to  the  laws.  This 
corruption  here  bairn$  tuek  at  the  pap ;  and  let  a  man 
commit  the  most  filthy  crimes  that  can  be,  yet  his  friends 
take  his  part ;  and  first  keep  him  from  apprehension,  and 
after;  by  fead  or  favor,  by  folse  assize,  or  some  way  or 


68 


TYTLER'S  HISTORY  OF  SCOTLAND. 


other,  they  find  moyen  of  hU  escape.  The  expeiienoe 
hereof  we  have  in  Niddry.  I  will  not  speak  how  I  am 
charged  with  this  fault  in  court  and  choir,  from  prince 
and  pulpit ;  yet  this  I  say,  that  howBoeyer  matters  hare 
gone  against  my  will,  I  am  innocent  of  all  injustice  in 
these  behalfs.  My  conscience  doth  set  me  clear,  as  did 
the  conscience  of  Samuel ;  and  I  call  you  to  be  judges 
herein.  And  suppose  I  be  your  king,  yet  I  submit  my- 
self to  the  accusations  of  you,  my  subjects,  in  this  behalf ; 
and  let  any  one  say  what  I  hare  done.  And  as  I  have 
thus  begun,  so  purpose  I  to  go  forward;  not  because  I 
am  James  Stuard,  and  can  command  so  many  thoosands 
of  men,  but  because  God  hath  made  me  a  king  and  judge, 
to  judge  righteous  judgment. 

^  For  witchcraft,  which  is  a  thing  grown  very  com- 
mon among  us,  I  know  it  to  be  a  most  abominable  sin  ; 
and  I  hare  been  occupied  these  three  quarters  of  a  year 
for  the  sifting  out  of  them  that  are  guilty  herein.  We 
axe  taught  by  the  laws,  both  of  God  and  man,  that  this 
sin  is  most  odious ;  and  by  God's  law  punishable  by 
death.  By  man's  law  it  is  called  MaUJieium  or  Venefi- 
cium,  an  ill  deed,  or  a  poisonable  deed,  and  punishable 
likewise  by  death.  Now,  if  it  be  death  as  practised 
against  any  of  the  people,  I  must  needs  think  it  to  be 
(at  least)  the  like  if  it  be  against  the  king.  Not  that  I 
fear  death  ;  for  I  thank  God  I  dare  in  a  good  cause 
abide  hazard."  ♦  •  «  As  for  them,"  he  concluded, «  who 
think  these  witchcrafts  to  be  but  fantasies,  I  remit  them 
to  be  catechised  and  instructed  in  these  most  erident 
points." 

James,  perhaps,  felt  somewhat  doubtfhl  upon  the  sub- 
ject of  his  personal  courage,  and  was  aware  that  his  sub- 
jects shared  in  his  apprehensions ;  but  he  was  little 
aware  how  soon  his  courage  and  determination  were  to 
be  put  to  the  test,  by  the  frightful  state  of  the  country 
and  the  frequent  attacks  upon  the  royal  person.  So, 
however,  it  happened.  Between  priyate  feuds,  the  con- 
tinuance of  Catholic  intrigues,  the  actiye  and  indignant 
counter-moyements  of  the  Kirk^  and  the  open  rebellion 
of  Bothwell,  whose  power  and  reckless  brayery  made 
him  formidable  to  all  parties,  the  whole  land  was  thrown 
Into  a  deplorable  state  of  tumult  and  insecurity.  In  the 
Highlands,  the  Earl  of  Huntly  and  the  Earl  of  Murray, 
two  of  the  greatest  houses  in  the  North,  engaged  in  a 
deadly  quarrel, which  drewin  the  Lairds  of  Grant, Calder, 
Mackintosh,  and  others,  and  made  the  fairest  districts  a 
prey  to  indiscriminate  hayoc  and  murder.  At  court  all 
was  commotion  and  apprehension  from  the  riyalry  of  the 
Master  of  Glammis,  who  began  to  be  a  fayourite  of  the 
king,  and  Chancellor  Thirlstane,  who  would  brook  no 
riyal  in  power.  On  the  Borders,  Bothwell  welcomed 
eyery  broken  man  and  cruel  murderer  who  chose  to  ride 
under  his  banner.  Some  time  previous  to  the  trials  of 
the  witches,  this  daring  chief  had  invaded  the  Supreme 
Courty  and  carried  off  a  witness  from  the  bar,  who  was 
about  to  give  evidence  against  one  of  his  retainers,  whilst 
the  king,  although  in  the  next  room,  did  not  dare  to  in- 
terfere. 

Neither  the  storming  of  Cromarty  jail  by  the 
Non-intmsionists  the  other  day^  and  Uieir  rescue 
of  a  prisoner,  nor  eyen  the  affair  of  Porteous,  can  be 
compared  to  this.  The  affair  ended  in  an  attempt  by 
Bothwell  to  make  the  king  prisoner ;  which,  like  the 
subsequent  Gowrie  conspiraey,had  very  nearly  been 
successful.  This  attempt  ushers  in  the  tra^y, 
still  famUiarly  remembered,  talked  of,  and  sung 
at  the  cottage  firesides  of  Scotland,  as  the  mur- 
der of  the  "Bonny  Earl  of  Murray."  It  is 
thus  strikingly  related  by  Mr.  Tytler : — 

The  reader  may  perhi^  remember  the  utter  destme- 
tion  brought  by  the  Regent  Murray  upon  the  great  Earl 
of  Huntly  ;  his  execution,  and  that  of  one  of  his  sons, 
the  forfeiture  of  his  immense  estates,  and  the  almost 
entire  overthrow  of  his  house.  It  was  now  thirty  years 
aiuce  that  miserable  event :  the  favour  of  the  king  had 
restored  the  family  of  Gordon  to  its  estates  and  its  hon- 
ours, and  HuQtly's  ambition  might  have  been  satisfiod; 


bat  the  deep  prineii^e  of  feudal  vengeanoe  demanded 
blood  for  blood ;  and  there  was  not  a  retainer  of  the 
house  of  Huntly,  from  the  belted  knight  that  sat  at  his 
master's  right  hsnd  to  the  serving-man  behind  his  chair, 
who  did  not  acknowledge  the  sacred  necessity  of  le- 
venge.  Time,  which  |softens  or  dilutes  most  feelings, 
only  added  intensity  to  this  ;  and  now  when  the  hour 
of  repayment  was  come,  the  debt  was  exacted  with 
fearful  interest.  The  then  Earl  of  Murray,  a  Stewart, 
and  representative  of  the  famous  regent,  vras  one  of  the 
bravest  and  handsomest  men  of  his  time ;  a  favourite  at 
Court,  and  dear  to  the  people  and  the  Kirk,  who  still 
looked  fondly  back  to  the  days  of  his  great  ancestor.  In 
deeds  of  arms  and  personal  prowess,  an  old  chronicle 
describes  him  as  a  sort  of  Amadis ;  **  comely,  gentle, 
brave,  and  of  a  great  stature  and  strength  of  body." 
This  young  nobleman  had  princely  possessions  in  the 
North,  and  for  some  years  deadly  feud  had  raged  be- 
tween him  and  Huntly;  but  Lord  Ochiltree,  a  Stewart, 
a  firm  friend  of  Murray,  wm  at  this  time  exerting 
himself  to  bring  abont  an  agreement  between  the  two 
barons;  and  had  so  far  succeeded,  that  Murray,  with  a 
slender  retinue,  left  his  northern  fastnesses,  and  came 
to  his  mother's  castle  of  Dunibristle,  a  short  distance 
fi!om  the  Qneensferry.  Huntly,  his  enemy,  was  then 
at  Court  in  constant  attendance  upon  the  king ;  and 
Ochiltree,  who  had  communicated  with  him,  and  in- 
formed him  of  Murray's  wishes  for  a  reconciliation,  took 
horse  and  rode  to  Qneensferry,  intending  to  pass  to 
Bnnibristle  and  arrange  an  amicable  meeting  between 
the  rival  earhk  To  his  surprise,  he  found  that  a  royal 
order  had  been  sent,  interdicting  any  boats  from  plying 
that  day  between  Fife  and  the  opposite  coast  Bat 
little  suspicion  was  occasioned :  he  believed  it  some 
measure  connected  with  the  hot  pursuit  then  going  on 
against  Bothwell,  and  was  satisfied  to  abandon  hii 
journey  to  Dunibristle.  This  proved  the  destruction  of 
his  poor  friend.  That  very  day,  the  7th  of  Febroary, 
the  king  hunted  ;  and  Huntly,  giving  out  that  he 
meant  to  accompany  the  royal  cavalcade,  assembled  his 
followers  to  the  number  of  forty  horse.  Suddenly  he 
prstended  that  certain  news  had  reached  him  of  the 
retreat  of  Bothwell ;  extorted  from  the  king  per- 
mission to  ride  against  this  traitor ;  and  passing  the 
ferry,  beset  the  house  of  Dunibristle,  and  summoned 
Murray  to  surrender.  This  was  refosed  ;  and,  in  spite 
of  the  great  disparity  in  numbers,  the  Stewarts  resisted 
till  nightfiJl,  when  Huntly,  collecting  the  corn-stacks, 
or  ricks,  in  the  nei^bouring  fields,  piled  them  up 
against  the  walls,  commanded  the  house  to  be  set  on 
fire,  and  compelled  its  unhappy  inmates  to  make  a 
desperate  sally  that  they  might  escape  being  bant 
alive.  In  this  outbreak  the  Sheriif  of  Murray  was 
slain ;  but  the  young  earl,  aided  by  his  great  statnro 
and  strength,  rushed  forth  all  burned  and  blackened, 
with  his  long  and  beantiftil  tresses  on  fire  and  streaming 
behind  him,  threw  himself  with  irresistible  tarj  on  hit; 
assailants,  broke  through  the  toils  like  a  lion,  and  es- 
caped by  speed  of  foot  to  the  sea-shore.  Here,  unfor- 
tunately, his  hair  and  the  silken  plume  of  his  hebnet 
blaied  through  the  darkness ;  and  his  foil  pursuenr, 
tracing  him  by  the  trail  of  light,  ran  him  into  a  cave, 
where  they  cruelly  murdered  him.  His  mortal  wound, 
it  was  said,  was  given  by  Gordon  of  Buckie,  who,  with 
the  ferocity  of  the  times,  seeing  Huntly  drawing  back, 
cursed  him  as  afraid  to  go  as  far  as  his  followers,  and 
called  upon  him  to  stab  his  foUen  enemy  with  his  dag- 
ger, and  become  art  and  part  of  the  slaughter,  as  he  had 
been  of  the  conspiracy.  Huntly,  thus  threatened, 
struck  the  dying  man  in  the  foce  with  his  weapon,  who, 
with  a  bitter  smile,  upbraided  him  "  with  having  spoilt 
a  better  foce  than  his  own.'*  The  outcry  against  this 
atrocious  murder  was  deep  and  universal. 

It  was  this  foul  enormity,  we  should  say,  tbat 
gave  a  deadly  blow  to  the  power  and  machinations 
of  the  CatholicleadersandtheCatholicparty  In  Scot- 
land, as  it  certainly  strengthened  the  Presbyterian 
cause.  The  king  and  his  favourite  minister  Mait- 
land,  though  he  now  affected  to  be  his  own  minis- 


TYTLER'S  HISTORY  OF  SCOTLAND. 


89 


ter,  w%n,  and  not  without  some  shadow  of  reason, 
suspected  of  heing,  if  not  actively  concerned  in 
the  muzder  of  Murray,  yet  cognizant  of  it,  and 
not  averse  to  its  perpetration.  Jealousy  has  been 
one  alleged  motive  of  the  king ;  as  in  the  case  of 
the  Gowrie  conspiracy.  The  old  ballad  which  nar- 
rates the  tragedy  bears,  that 
^  The  bonny  Earl  of  Marray,  he  was  the  queen's  love." 
More  than  one  Scottish  historian  has  adopted  this 
view ;  and  it  is  at  least  certain,  that  among  his 
other  crotchets,  James,  in  the  early  part  of  his 
manned  life,  was  troubled  with  jealousy,  and  that 
the  royal  pair  were  not  only  alienated,  but  at  open 
hostility, and  each  heading  rival  household  factions. 
However  the  allegation  of  jealousy  is  supported,  this 
mnch  is  certsdn,  that  if  James  was  guilty  in  deed  or 
thought  of  Murray's  blood,  retribution  was  not 
slow ;  for  the  murder  of  that  popular  nobleman 
led,  in  the  estimation  of  Mr.  Tytler,  to  one  most 
important  event,  to  which  he  thus  alludes  : 

Bat  the  murder  of  Mniray,  the  implication  of  the 
t^oMellor  and  suspected  connivance  of  the  king  in  this 
M  tnosaetion  ;  the  compulsory  retirement  of  Mait- 
lud,uil  the  formidable  combination  which  had  taken 
pfatee  between  the  mi^rity  of  the  higher  nobles  and  the 
£>ri  9i  Bothwell,  threw  the  monarch  into  alarm,  and 
foKtd  him  upon  some  measures  which,  under  other 
cucaastanees,  he  would  scarcelj  have  adopted.  His 
late  ftvoor  to  Huntly  had  damaged  him  in  the  affec- 
tions of  the  Kiik :  he  now  resolved  to  court  its  aid  and 
to  iUtter  it  by  unwonted  concessions.  These  it  is  im- 
portant to  notice,  as  tbey  led  to  no  less  a  measure  than 
the  establishment  of  Presbytery  by  a  prince  to  whom 
this  faim  of  ecclesiastical  government  iq»pean  to  have 
been  espeeiaJly  obnoxious.  The  acts  passed  in  the  par- 
litaeat  1584,  agahist  the  discipline  and  priyileges  of  the 
iiirk,  had  long  been  a  thorn  in  the  side  of  the  ministers; 
snd  they  now,  in  an  Assembly  held  some  time  proTious 
to  the  meeting  of  parliament,  resolved  to  petition  the 
king,  not  only  for  the  abolition  of  these  obnoxions  sta- 
tites,  but  for  a  solemn  legislatlTe  establishment  of  the 
PreAyterian  system  of  church  goremment. 

The  Kirk  triumphed ;  and  1592  witnessed  the 
full  recognition  of  Presbytery,  as  the  established 
religion  of  Scotland.  But  the  Kirk  was  not  yet 
content ;  and  Mr.  Tytler  thus  moralizes  on  the 
^xrit  of  every  dominant  ecclesiastical  party,  what- 
erer  be  the  severe  ordeal  through  which  it  may 
itself  have  passed — 

Hsd  the  Kirk  oontented  itself  with  these  triumphs, 
ud  rested  satisfied  in  the  king's  present  dispositions, 
which  appeared  whoUy  in  its  favour,  all  things  might 
fasTe  remained  quiet :  for  the  Catholics,  convinced  of  the 
nadness  of  their  projects,  were  ready  to  abstain  from  all 
practiees  inimical  to  the  religion  of  the  State,  on  the 
angle  condition  that  they  sho^d  not  be  persecuted  for 
their  adherence  to  the  ancient  faith.  But  the  Kirk  were 
not  disposed  to  take  this  quiet  course.  The  principle  of 
toleration,  diTine  as  it  assuredly  is  in  its  ori^,  yet  so 
I^  in  its  recognition  even  amongst  the  best  men,  was 
tbcn  utterly  unknown  to  either  party.  Reformed  or 
Catholic  The  penaissiou  OTon  of  a  single  case  of  Catho- 
lic woidiip,  however  secrete—the  attendance  of  a  solitary 
isdiTidnal  at  a  single  mass,  in  the  remotest  district  of 
tbe  land,  at  the  dead  hour  of  night,  in  the  most  seduded 
cbaaber,  and  where  none  could  come  but  such  as  knelt 
hefore  the  altar  for  conscience'  sake,  and  in  all  sincerity 
of  ionl,— each  worship,  and  its  permission  for  an  hour, 
^considered  an  open  encouragement  of  Antichrist  and 
idolatry.  To  extinguish  the  mass  for  OTor,  to  compel 
its  ssppoiters  to  embrace  what  the  Kirk  considered  to 
be  the  purity  of  Presbyterian  truth,  and  this  under  the 
penalties  of  life  and  limb,  or  iu  its  mildest  form  of  trea- 
son, banishment,  and  forfeiture^  was  considered  not 


merely  praiseworthy,  but  a  point  of  high  religious  duty ; 
and  the  whole  apparatus  of  the  Kirk,  the  whole  inquisi- 
torial machinery  of  detection  and  persecution,  was 
brought  to  bear  upon  the  accomplishment  of  these  great 
ends.  Are  we  to  wonder  that,  under  such  a  state  of 
things,  the  intrigues  of  the  Catholics  for  the  overthrow  of 
a  gOTemment  which  sanctioned  such  a  system  continued ; 
that  when  they  Imew,  or  suspected  that  the  king  him- 
self was  aTorse  to  persecution,  they  were  encouraged  to 
renew  their  intercourse  with  Spain  ;  and  to  hope  that  a 
new  outbreak.  If  properly  directed,  might  lead  either  to 
the  destruction  of  a  rival  fidth,  or  to  the  establishment  of 
liberty  of  conscience ! 

Though  James  had  for  the  moment,  by  these 
concessions,  secured  the  favour  of  the  Kirk  and 
the  Protestant  lords,  he  remained  embroiled  with 
the  Catholic  lords,  who  still  intrigued  with  Spain  ; 
and  with  the  restless  and  reckless  Bothwell,  whom 
it  was  the  policy  of  the  Kirk,  as  of  Elizabeth, 
secretly  to  favour,  as  a  means  either  of  annoying 
the  king,  or  of  balancing  interests,  and  keeping 
him  in  check.  When  the  plot,  known  in  history 
by  the  name  of  the  Spanish  Blanks^  was  detected 
—by  the  zeal  and  courage  of  Mr.  Andrew  Knox, 
minister  of  Paisley,  who  seized  a  Catholic  gentle* 
man,  the  messenger  of  the  conspirators,  in  the 
mouth  of  the  Clyde,  after  he  had  got  on  board 
the  ship  which  was  to  convey  him  to  Spain, — 
Elizabeth  fally  shared  in  the  apprehensions  of 
James  ;  which  fact  we  mention,  to  introduce  her 
original  epigrammatic  letter  of  counsel,  written 
to  her  young  "Brother,"  in  their  common  per- 
plexity— 

«*  Advance  not,"  said  she,  "such  as  hang  their  hopes 
on  other  strings  than  you  may  tune.  Them  that  gold 
can  corrupt,  think  not  your  gifts  can  assure.  Who  once 
have  made  shipwreck  of  their  country,  let  them  never 
enjoy  it.  Weed  out  the  weeds,  lest  the  best  com  fester. 
Never  arm  with  power  such  whose  bitterness  must  fol- 
low after  you  ;  nor  trust  not  their  trust  that  under  any 
colour  will  thrall  their  own  soil. 

*^  I  may  not,  nor  will  I,  conceal  overtures  that  of  late 
fdll  amply  have  been  made  me,  how  you  may  plainly 
know  all  the  combiners  against  your  State,  and  how  yon 
may  entrap  them,  and  so  assure  your  kingdom.  Con- 
sider, if  this  actor  doth  deserve  surety  of  life— not  of 
land,  but  such  as  may  preserve  breath,  to  spend  where 
best  it  shall  please  you.  *  When  I  see  the  day,  I  will 
impart  my  advice  to  whom  it  most  appertains. 

^  Now  bethink,  my  dear  brother,  what  farther  you 
will  have  me  do.  In  meanwhile,  beware  to  give  the 
reins  into  the  hands  of  any,  lest  it  be  too  late  to  revoke 
such  actions  done.  Let  no  one  of  the  Spanish  faction  in 
your  absence,  yea, when  you  are  present,  receive  strength 
or  countenance.  You  know,  but  for  you,  all  of  them  be 
alike  for  me,  for  my  particular.  Yet  I  may  not  deny, 
without  spot  or  wrinkle,  but  I  abhor  such  as  set  their 
country  to  sale.  And  thus,  committing  you  to  God's 
tuition,  I  shall  remain  the  faithfVil  holder  of  my  vowed 
amity." 

The  King  of  Scots  certainly  needed  at  this  time 
both  counsel  and  consolation.  His  great  stay,  the 
chancellor,  liad  succumbed  beneath  the  powerful 
faction  favoured  by  the  queen,  which  had  long  plot- 
ted his  ruin,  and  dreaded  his  restoration  to  power. 

Mr.  Tytler  presents  a  vivid  picture  of  the  inter- 
nal condition  of  Scotland  at  this  epoch,  and  one 
which,  in  the  great  outlines,  might,  with  the  ex- 
ception of  the  leligious  factions,  stand  for  the  deli- 
neation of  many  of  the  previous  reigns. 

Nothing,  at  this  moment,  could  be  more  deplorable 
than  the  torn  and  distracted  state  of  the  Scottish  nobUity. 
The  Duke  of  Lennox  and  the  Lord  Hamilton,  the  two 
first  noblemen  in  the  reiJin;  were  at  mortsl  feud;  the 


80 


TYTLER'S  HISTORY  OP  SCOTLAND. 


Bvbjaet  of  their  quarrel  being  an  attempt,  on  the  part  of 
Lennox,  to  get  himself  declared  the  next  in  Baecearion 
to  the  orown,  to  the  exclniion  of  tiie  prior  right  of  the 
fiunily  of  Hamilton.  Hontly  again,  and  all  thoee  harouB 
who  supported  him,  were  at  ftud  with  the  potent  Earl 
of  Athol,  and  the  whole  race  of  Stewart;  Uie  oaose  of 
their  enmity  being  an  onquenehable  thint  of  revenge  for 
the  mnrder  of  the  Earl  of  Murray.  Argyll,  Ochiltree, 
and  all  the  barons  who  adhered  to  them,  were  at  feud 
with  Lord  Thirlstane,  the  chuicellor,  Loid  Home,  Lord 
Fleming,  and  their  &otion  and  allies;  in  which  course 
they  were  urged  forward  by  the  enmity  of  the  Queen  of 
Scots.  It  is  difficult,  by  any  general  expressions,  to  con- 
vey a  picture  of  the  miserable  state  of  a  country  torn  by 
such  feuds  as  these.  Nor  were  these  the  sole  causes  of 
disquiet :  Huntlv,  Angus,  and  Errol,  although  declared 
traitors,  were  at  large  in  the  North;  Bothwell,  whom  the 
king  justly  regarded  as  his  mortal  enemy,  was  also  at 
liberty,  harboured  sometimes  on  the  Borders,  sometimes 
in  England,  and  even  daring  to  enter  the  capital  in  dis- 
guise and  hold  secret  intercourse  with  the  noblemen 
about  the  king's  person.  The  intrigues  of  the  Catholics, 
although  checked  by  the  late  discoreries,  were  not  at  an 
end;  and  the  ministers  of  the  Kirk,  utterly  dissatisfied 
with  the  leniency  which  James  had  exhibited  to  the  re- 
bel earls,  began  to  attack  his  conduct  in  the  pulpit,  and 
to  throw  out  surmises  of  his  secret  inclinations  to  Popery. 
Is  it  a  subject  of  wonder  that  James,  thus  surrounded 
with  danger  and  disquietude,  without  a  minister  whom 
he  could  trust,  or  a  nobility  on  whose  loyalty  and  aflbc- 
tions  he  could  for  a  moment  depend,  should  have  been 
4riven  into  measures  which  may  often  appear  inconsis- 
tent and  capricious  t  The  sole  party  on  whom  he  could 
depend  was  that  of  the  ministers  of  the  Kirk,  with  the 
lesser  barons  and  the  burghs;  and  their  support  was 
only  to  be  bought  at  the  price  of  the  utter  destruction  of 
the  Catholic  earls,  and  the  entire  extirpation  of  the 
Catholic  faith. 

To  this  sweeping  act  of  perseoution  the  monarch 
would  not  consent.  At  this  moment  thirteen  of  the  no- 
bility of  Scotland  were  Catholics;  and,  in  the  northern 
counties,  a  large  proportion  of  the  people  were  attached 
to  the  same  faith.  It  was  insisted  on,  by  the  leading 
ministers  of  the  Kirk,  in  a  convention  of  the  Estates 
which  the  king  summoned  at  tlus  time,  that  the  strictest 
investigation  should  be  made  for  the  discovery  and  im- 
piisonment  of  all  suspected  of  heresy;  and  that,  under 
the  penalties  of  forfeiture  and  banishment,  they  should 
be  compelled  to  recant,  and  embrace  the  reformed  re- 
ligion. The  severity  and  intolerance  of  such  demands 
will  be  best  understood  by  quoting  the  words  of  the  ori- 
ginal. The  Kirk  represented  that,  **  Seeing  the  increase 
of  Papistry  daily  within  this  realm,''  it  was  craved  of 
his  majesty,  with  his  councU  and  nobility  at  that  time 
assembled,  "  that  all  Papists  within  the  same  may  be 
punished  according  to  the  laws  of  God  and  of  the 
realm.  That  the  act  of  Pariiament  might,  ip$o  /aUo, 
strike  upon  all  manner  of  men,  landed  or  unlanded,  in 
oflioe  or  not,  as  it  at  present  strikes  against  beneficed 
persons.  That  a  declaration  be  made  against  all  Jesuits, 
seminary  priests,  and  trafficking  Papists,  pronouncing 
them  guilty  of  treason;  and  that  the  penalties  of  the  act 
may  be  enforced  against  all  persons  who  conceal  or  har- 
bour them,  not  for  three  days,  as  it  now  stands,  but  for 
any  time  whatsoever.  That  all  such  persons  as  the  Kirk 
had  found  to  be  Papists,  although  tiiey  be  not  excom- 
municated, should  be  debarred  from  occupying  any  ofiice 
within  the  realm,  as  also  fh>m  access  to  his  majesty's 
eompany,  or  enjoying  any  benefit  of  the  laws.  That  upon 
this  declaration,  the  pains  of  treason  and  other  civil 
pains  should  follow,  as  upon  the  sentence  of  excommuni- 
cation; and  that  an  act  of  council  should  be  passed  to 
this  effect,  which  in  the  next  Parliament  should  be  made 
law." 

We  ahall  go  no  farther.  For  once,  surely,  the 
king  was  right  in  his  resistance  to  the  enactment  of 
such  "sweeping  and  severe  penalties," 

In  recording^  at  this  time^  an  open  insult  to  the 
Iftw,  Md  to  all  lawful  authority,  shown  hj  somo 


of  the  nobility,  Baighky,  the  minister  of  Elizabeth, 
wrote  npon  the  margin  of  a  letter  from  Edinburgh, 
in  which  fiowes,  the  English  ambassador,  gave  an 
account  of  the  outrage — "  A  miserable  state ;  that 
may  cause  us  to  bless  oura^  and  our  goveznesi." 
Seldom  did  a  month  go  by,  but  some  old  quarrel  was 
avenged  by  a  fresh  murder,  some  plot  was  conceited 
among  the  nobility, or  some  family-feud  broke  out; 
while  Elizabeth  and  her  ministeraplayed  their  usual 
game  of  craft,  sustained  by  the  most  barefaced  dis- 
regard to  truth.  Added  to  all  this,  was  the  sus- 
picion of  the  leaders  of  the  Kirk,  that  the  king  and 
court  were,  in  earnest,  becoming  favourable  to 
Popery.  Indeed,  the  English  emissaries  in  Scot- 
land appear  themselves  to  have  shared  in  these 
apprehensions ;  and  dreaded,  above  all  things,  the 
union  of  the  Scottish  nobility^  which  James  had, 
after  a  triumphant  campaign  agamst  his  rebel 
barons,  set  himself  to  accomplish.  He  resolved, 
at  all  events,  not  to  drive  the  Catholic  nobility 
desperate,  by  directing  against  them  the  thonden 
of  the  Kirk.  Mr.  T^^er  states  the  case  strongly ; 
but  does  not,  we  think,  place  the  threatened  dan- 
gers to  the  Protestant  cause,  and  even  to  the  na- 
tional independence,  in  the  strongest  light  possible, 
in  his  description  of  the  solemn  convention  as- 
sembled at  St  Andrews  in  this  emergency. 

Of  this  religious  convention  Mr.  James  Melvil,  nephew 
of  the  well-known  Andrew  Melvil,  was  chosen  moden- 
tor ;  and  Mr.  John  Davison,  the  sternest  and  most  seal- 
ous  amongst  his  brethren,  did  not  hesitate  to  anaign  the 
pastors  of  the  Kirk  of  coldness,  self-seeking,  and  negli- 
gence. Let  them  repent,  said  be,  and  betake  themaelTei 
to  their  ordinary  armour— fasting  and  prayer.  Let  the 
whole  Kirk  concur  in  this  needful  humiliation.  Above 
all,  let  the  rebel  earls,  Huntly,  Errol,  Angus,  Auchen- 
down,  and  their  aecomplices,  whom  it  were  idle  to  awiil 
with  any  lighter  censures,  be  solemnly  exconununicated; 
and  let  a  grave  message  of  pastors,  baions,  and  burgeoesi 
carry  their  resoluti<m  to  the  king,  now  so  deeply  alien- 
ated (torn  the  good  cause  :  then  they  might  look  for  bet- 
ter times.  But  now  their  sins  called  for  humiliation : 
for  they,  the  shepherds,  seemed  to  have  forgotten  their 
flocks :  they  were  idle  and  profane ;  nor  would  he  be  far 
from  the  truth,  if  he  declared  that  a  great  part  of  their 
pastors  were  at  this  moment  the  meiriest  and  the  caie- 
lessest  men  in  Scotland.  Alter  much  debate,  it  was  re- 
solved that  the  Roman  Catholic  rebels  should  be  excom- 
municated; and  this  upon  the  ground  that  many  amongst 
them  had  been  formerly  students  in  the  university  of  St 
Andrews,  and  must,  therefore,  have  signed  the  Confes- 
sion of  Faith.  The  terms  of  this  sentence,  in  vrfaich  not 
the  whole  Presbyterian  sect,  aa  represented  by  the  Ge- 
neral Assembly  of  their  Kirk,  but  an  isolated  provincial 
synod  took  upon  them  to  excommunicate  certain  mem- 
bers of  the  Catholic  Church,  were  very  awAil.  This 
little  conclave  declared  that,  in  name  and  authority  of 
the  Lord  Jesus  Christ,  they  cut  off  the  said  persons  from 
their  communion,  and  delivered  them  to  Sataa,  to  the 
destruction  of  their  fiesh :  it  added— that  the  spirit 
might  yet  be  safe,  if  it  pleased  God  to  reclaim  them  by 
repentance ;  but  pronounced,  if  unrepentant,  their  jast 
and  everlasting  condemnation.  This  sentence  was  com- 
manded to  be  intimated  in  every  kirk  in  the  kingdom. 
All  persons,  of  whatever  rank  er  degree,  were  interdicted 
from  concealing  or  holding  communication  with  the  de- 
linquents thus  delivered  to  the  Devil,  under  the  penalty 
of  being  risited  by  the  same  anathema ;  and  the  synod 
concluded  bv  exhorting  the  pastors  to  whom  the  eharge 
of  the  flock  had  been  intrusted,  to  prepare  themselves  by 
abstinence,  prayer,  and  diligent  study  of  the  Word,  for 
that  general  and  solemn  Fast  which  was  judged  most 
needfhl  to  be  observed  throughout  the  land. 

The  reasons  for  this  solemn  Fast  are  sst  forth  in 


TYtLER'S  aiSTORY  OP  SCOTLAND. 


91 


deU3 ;  and  mbm  of  them,  to  modem  esn^  80imd 
not  a  little  curious.  Although  there  were  pregnant 
^unds  for  suspecting  the  Catholic  lords  of  treason 
to  thdr  oountiyy  and  although  firmness  and  zeal 
wot  nevermore  lequirsd  in  Uie  guardians  and  le- 
presmtatrres  of  the  national  or  Protestant  party, 
these  leaders^  the  ministers,  attempted  to  carry  mat- 
ters with  the  high  haiid»  which  even  the  imminency 

ol  the  ensis  wiU  hardly  justify. The  three  ex* 

oommunieated  earisoonoemed  in  the  conspiracy  of 
the/S^M^foftiff  hayingnowprepared  their  forces, 
suddenly  demanded  to  be  brought  to  trial ;  and 
a  final  and  open  collision  was  expected  to  take 
plaee  at  Perth.  We  have  said  this  much  to 
mder  the  subjoined  animated  account  of  the  af- 
&ir  intelligible  to  those  readers  who  may  not  re- 
awmber  the  exact  position  of  parties. 

A  eoUisioB  appeared  now  inevitable ;  and  there  were 
■M jeaoNe  nHiich  promised  to  make  it,  when  it  did  ooeor, 
OM  ef a  ftaifld  deseription.  The  opposite  factions,  whose 
fufiaMtm  were  flocking  firom  all  parts  towards  Perth,  the 
aatidpated  scene  of  the  trial,  were  animated  by  the  moot 
ytler  and  iwengelU  feelings ;  their  blood  was  boiling  nn- 
te  the  iafluenee  of  ikmily  fends,  religieas  pereecntion, 
uA  fualieal  hatred.    The  advocates  for  peaoe  were 
koekitea,  and  their  voices  drewned  in  the  din  of  arms 
aad  pedaBui*i(»is  of  mutual  deiianoe;  and  aU  this  was 
HTujiamiia  and  increased  by  tiie  warlike  dennneiations 
if  thi  EiA,  whieb,  by  its  thousand  tmmpet-tongnes, 
tfawgh  the  length  and  breadth  ai  the  land,  inmmoned 
all  who  loved  the  Qospel  of  the  Lord  Jesns  Christ  to 
prd  en  their  weapons^  and,  if  necessary,  die  for  their 
hiHtu   Had  things  belen  aUowed  to  oontinne  in  this 
stale,  and  the  master  taken  place  at  Perth,  a  few  days 
■ore  wght  have  kindled  the  flames  of  civil  war  in  the 
esoBtry,  and  deluged  it  with  blood ;  but  at  this  crisis 
Jims  wisely  interdicted  the  trial  from  being  held  at 
Fsfth,  aod  lesolved  that  a  solemn  inquiry  into  the  oon- 
dict  of  Hnntiy,  Angns,  and  Erxol,  should  take  plaee  be- 
kn  ceansdarionerB  to  be  selected  from  the  nobility,  the 
Wrghs,  and  the  Kirk.    To  secure  tranquillity,  public 
ffsdaasatioBi  was  made  that  none  except  snch  as  were 
sspedally  called  for  should  prssnme  te  attend  the  con- 
naftien;  that  tlM  three  earls,  dismissing  their  foreee, 
Asold  swail  the  king's  determination  at  Perth;  and 
ftat,  in  the  mean  season,  none  should  molest  them  dniv 
ieg  the  trial  or  inquiry  which  was  about  to  take  plaee. 
At  aU  this  the  Kirk  stood  aghast.  They  had  uuiated  on 
the  imprieoameiii  of  the  three  earls.    They  had  argued 
that,  till  they  signed  the  Ckmfession  of  Faith,  and  reoon- 
eOed  themselvee  te  the  Kirk,  they  could  not  be  recog- 
nised or  permitted  to  take  their  trial;  that  they  ought 
to  have  ae  eotmsel  to  defend  them ;  and  that  the  K&k, 
as  their  aeeaeer,  should  nomlnato  the  jnry.    Ito  minis- 
tsfs  BOW  eon^lsJned,  threatened,  and  remonstrated;  but 
when  the  day  appointed  ibr  the  convention  arrived,  they 
fcoad  the  khig  not  only  resolved  to  abide  by  his  own 
jaigment,  but  ee  strongly  supported  by  the  nobility 
whom  he  had  summoned,  that  it  would  be  vain  to  at- 
teajyt  lesistaBee.    James,  who  had  token  time  to  conai- 
te  all  eeolly,  on  weighing  the  whole  dronmstances, 
'  it  neeeasary  to  steer  a  middle  course.    The  trial 


With  that  middle  coarse  of  policy  which  James 
deemed  it  expedient  to  steer,  and  which  Mr.  Tytler 
dttraeteriaea  aa  unwise  and  unmerciful  to  the  Ca- 
tholic lorda^  and  which  filled  the  Catholic  party 
with  diseontent,  the  Eark  was  not  bettor  pleased. 

The  Kirk  received  the  act  of  abolition  with  mingled 
math  and  hunentotion.  It  actually  seemed  to  them  an 
huoffident  security,  and  a  trifling  punishment,  that  no 
■an  was  to  be  permitted  to  remain  within  the  realm, 
and  eiQoy  his  estate  and  the  protection  of  the  law,  un- 
lem  he  signed  the  Presbyterian  Confession  of  Faith. 
The  prsftoatioA  Was;  that  any  man  should  be  at  liberty 


to  retain  his  belief  in  the  Roman  Catholic  faith,  and  hia 
Scottish  estotes,  if  he  consented  to  banish  himself  from 
his  native  country.  The  feelings  of  the  leaders  of  the 
Kirk  upon  this  subject  are  thus  described  by  Bowes,  an 
eye-witness,  in  his  letter  to  Burghley. 

**  This  edict,  and  act  of  oblivion,  is  thought  to  be  very 
ii^nrious  to  the  Church,  and  fhr  against  the  laws  of  God 
and  this  realm  ;  whereupon  the  ministers  have  not  only 
openly  protested  to  the  king  and  oonvention  that  they 
will  not  agree  to  the  same,  but  also,  in  their  sermons, 
inveigh  greatly  against  it ;  allegmg  that,  albeit  it  hath 
a  pretenoe  to  establish  one  true  religion  in  the  realm, 
yet  liberty  is  given  to  all  men  to  profess  what  they  list, 
BO  they  depart  out  of  the  realm  ;  and  thereby  they  shall 
enjoy  greater  priyileges  and  advantages  than  any  other 
good  subject  can  do.'*^ 

The  leniency,  if  it  might  be  so  termed,  shown 
by  the  king  to  the  Catholic  lords,  and  the  activity 
of  the  Jesuits  in  Scotland,  were  exceedingly  dis- 
pleasing to  Elizabeth,  who  was  at  this  time  much 
chagrined  by  Henry  the  Fourth  becoming  a  pro- 
fessed convert  to  the  Roman  Catholic  faith.  Be- 
sides despatohing  Lord  Zouch  as  an  extraordinary 
ambassador,  to  remonstrate  strongly  and  openly, 
Elizabeth  privately  wrote  a  letter  to  her  ^^miaguided 
brother,"  with  her  own  hand,  which  is  full  of  the 
mingled  strength,  severity,  trnd  finesse,  which  con- 
stituted the  elemente  of  her  double  nature. 

**  Mt  dbar  Bbotbkr.— To  see  so  much,  I  rue  my 
sight  that  views  the  evident  spectacle  of  a  seduced  king, 
abusing  council,  and  wry-guided  kingdom.  My  love  to 
your  good  and  hate  of  your  ruin,  breeds  my  heedfVil  re- 
gard of  your  surest  safety.  If  I  neglected  you,  I  could 
wink  at  your  worst,  and  yet  withstand  my  enemies' 
drifts.  But  be  you  persuaded  by  sisters.  I  will  ad- 
vise you,  void  of  all  guile,  and  will  not  stick  to  tell  you, 
that  if  you  tread  the  path  you  chuse,  I  will  pray  for  you, 
but  leave  you  to  your  harms. 

"I  doubt  whether  shame  or  sorrow  have  had  the 
upper  hand  when  I  read  your  last  lines  to  me.  Who,  of 
judgment  that  deemed  me  not  simple,  could  suppose 
that  any  answers  vou  have  writ  me  should  satisfy,  nay, 
enter  into  the  opinion  of  any  one  not  void  of  four  senses, 
leaving  out  the  first. 

**  Those  of  whom  you  have  had  so  evident  proof  by 
their  actual  rebellion  in  the  field  you  preserve,  whose 
offers  you  knew  then  so  large  to  foreign  princes.  And 
now,  at  last,  when,  plainest  of  all,  was  teken  the  carrier 
himself,  confessing  all  before  many  commissioners  and 
divers  councillors ;  because  you  slacked  the  time  till  he 
was  escaped,  and  now  must  seem  deny  it,  (though  all 
men  knew  it ;)  therefore,  forsooth,  no  jury  can  be  found 
for  them.  May  thisblindme  that knowswhataking'soffice 
were  to  do  \  Abuse  not  yourself  so  far.  Indeed,  when  a 
weak  bowing  and  a  slack  seat  in  government  shall  appear, 
then  bold  spirite  will  stir  the  stem,  and  guide  the  ship  to 
greatest  wreck,  and  will  take  heart  te  supply  the  failure. 

^  Assure  yourself  no  greater  peril  can  ever  befall  you, 
nor  any  king  else,  than  to  take  for  payment  evil  ac- 
counto  ;  for  they  deride  such,  and  make  their  prey  of 
their  neglect.  There  is  no  prince  alive,  but  if  he  show 
fear  or  yielding  but  he  shall  have  tutors  enough,  though 
he  be  out  of  minority.  And  when  I  remember  what 
sore  punishment  ti^ose  so  lewd  traitors  should  have, 
then  I  read  again,  lest  at  first  I  mistook  your  mind  ;  but 
when  the  reviewing  granted  my  lecture  true.  Lord  I  what 
wonder  grew  hi  me  that  yon  should  correct  them  with 
benefito  who  deserre  much  severer  correction." 

The  letter  is  of  conaderahle  length,  and,  under 
the  guise  of  friendship,  becomes  nwre  and  more 
biting  and  sarcastic.  like  every  ambassador  sent 
to  Scotland  by  Elizabeth,  Lord  Zouch  had  a  double 
mission  ;  the  object  of  spying,  and  secretly  intrigu- 
ing among  the  factious  nobility  being  always  as 
importont  to  the  English  queen,  as  the  ostensible 


92 


TYTLER'S  HISTORY  OF  SCOTLAND. 


parpofies  of  the  embassy.  This,  Uiougli  not  one  of 
the  most  serious  plots,  in  which  the  instigator  was 
Elizabeth,  was  marked  by  the  same  character  of 
treachery  which  pervades  them  all. 

Whilst  assuring  James  of  Elizabeth's  unshaken  friend- 
ship and  zeal  for  his  welfare,  he  [Zouch]  opened  a  com- 
munication with  his  bitter  foe,  the  fierce  and  reckless 
Bothwell;  and  arranged  with  this  earl,  John  CoWil 
Iwother  of  the  Laird  of  Wemyss,  Henry  Lock  an  agent 
of  Sir  Robert  Cecil,  and  some  of  the  most  violent  minis- 
ters of  the  Kirk,  a  new  plot  for  the  surprise  of  the  king. 

James  was  all  the  time  protesting,  and  with 
truth,  that  he  had  no  Spanish  predilections  ;  and 
was  as  true  to  Protestantism  as  he  was  to  Eliza- 
beth. What  was  as  probable  a  motive,  he  knew 
that  the  invasion  of  England  by  Spain  would  be  a 
madness.  In  the  meanwhile,  the  nation  was  filled 
with  joy  by  the  birth  of  a  Prince  ;  and  Bothwell 
and  his  coroplotters  were  signally  defeated  by  the 
king  in  person  in  the  open  field.  King  James, 
who  was  perfectly  well  informed  of  the  intrigues 
of  Lord  Zouch,  was  now  at  liberty  to  reply  to  the 
three-months  old,  ironical  epistle  of  his  **  Beloved 
Sister,"  which  he  did  by  the  retort  courteous,  and 
in  her  own  vein.  The  royal  correspondence  is,  in- 
deed, to  those  informed  of  the  by-play  and  real 
feelings  of  the  parties,  as  irresistibly  comic  as  any- 
thing in  a  true  comedy.    James  set  out— 

**  So  many  unexpected  wonders.  Madam  and  dearest 
sister,  have  of  late  so  overshadowed  my  eyes  and  mind, 
and  dazzled  so  all  my  senses,  as  in  truth  I  neither  know 
what  I  should  say,  nor  whereat  first  to  begin;  but 
thinking  it  best  to  take  a  pattern  of  yourself,  since  I 
deal  with  you,  I  must,  repeating  the  first  words  of 
your  last  letter,  (only  the  sex  changed,)  say  I  rue  my 
sight  that  views  the  evident  spectacle  of  a  iedueed  ^neen. 
For  when  I  enter  betwixt  two  extremities  in  judging  of 
you,  I  had  far  rathett  interpret  it  to  the  least  dis- 
honour on  your  part,  which  is  ignorant  error.  Appar- 
don  me.  Madam ;  for  long  approved  friendship  requires 
a  round  plainness.  For  when  first  I  consider  what 
strange  efflscts  have  of  late  appeared  in  your  country ; 
how  my  avowed  traitor  [Bothwell]  hath  not  only 
been  openly  reset  in  your  realm,  but  plainly  made  his 
residence  in  your  proper  houses,  e^er  plainliest  kytking 
himself  where  greatest  confiuence  of  people  was ;  and, 
which  is  most  of  all,  how  he  hath  received  English 
money  in  a  reasonable  quantity ;  waged  both  English 
and  Scottish  men  therewith ;  proclaimed  his  pay  at 
divers  parish  churches  in  England  ;  convened  his  forces 
within  England,  in  the  sight  of  all  that  Border;  and 
therefh>m  contemptuously  marched,  and  camped  within 
a  mile  of  my  principal  city  and  present  abode,  all  his 
trumpeters,  and  divers  waged  men,  being  English ;  and 
being  by  myself  in  person  repulsed  fW>m  that  place,  re- 
turned back  in  England  with  displayed  banners ;  and 
since  that  time,  with  sound  of  trumpet,  making  his  troops 
to  muster  within  English  ground  :  when  first,  I  say,  I 
consider  these  strange  effects,  and  then  again  I  call,  to 
mind,  upon  the  one  part,  what  number  of  solemn  pro- 
mises, not  only  by  your  ambassadors  but  by  many  letters 
of  your  own  hand  :  [But  we  must  refer  to  the  original :] — 

The  King  of  Scots,  in  this  spirited  remonstrance, 
had  Elizabeth  at  advantage ;  and  she  felt  it.  She 
was  now  all  graciousness ;  and  not  only  agreed  to 
stand  as  godmother  to  the  infant  heir  to  the  crown, 
but  to  make  a  largesse  to  the  ever  needy  king.  All 
was  again  harmony  and  amity  between  James, 
Elizabeth,  and  the  Kirk  ;  and  he  proceeded  with 
fresh  zeal  against  the  Catholic  lords,  who  had 
proved  themselves  incorrigible  rebels,  and  against 
the  whole  Catholic  body  of  Scotland.  At  the 
meeting  of  the  Estates-— 


All  parsons  detected  in  saying  mass,  were  ordered  to 
be  punished  capitally,  and  their  goods  confiscated,    it 
was  resolved,  for  the  preservation  of  the  religion,  and 
to  conlinn  the  amity  between  the  two  realms,  that  there 
should  be  a  thorough  reformation  in  the  king's  eanncil ; 
and  that  Elisabeth's  advioe  should  be  followed  in  such 
matters.    The  Catholic  Countess  of  Hontly,  whoee  in- 
tercourse with  the  king  and  queen  had  been  a  eonstant 
thorn  in  the  side  of  the  Kirk,  was  dismissed  fromjoourt ; 
Lord  Hume  recanted,  and  signed  the  Conftssion  of  Faith, 
either  convinced  in  conscience,  or  terrified  by  impending 
severities ;  and  the  king  decland,ihat  immediately  after 
the  baptism,  he  would  march  in  person,  at  the  head  of 
the  whole  strength  of  his  dominions,  agiUnst  the  Catho- 
lic insurgents. On  both  sides  a  vio- 
lent and  determined  struggle  was  anticipated ;  as  there 
were  many   deep  ftelings  and  bitter  passions  which 
festered  in  the  minds  of  the  leaders  and  their  hosts. 
With  the  Kirk,  it  was  a  war  of  religious  persecution,  or 
rather  extermination.    Their  avowed  object  was  to  de- 
pose Antiehriat,  and  to  compel  all  Catholics  to  reeantor 
at  once  give  up  their  lands,  their  honours,  and  their 
country,  for  their  pririlege  to  adhere  to  that  Church 
which  they  believed  to  be  of  divine  orighi  and  the  only 
depository  of  the  truth.     But  to  these  foelings  were 
added,  as  may  be  easily  imagined,  many  motives  and 
passions  of  baser  alloy :  ambition ;  love  of  plunder  ;  deep 
feudal  hatred  ;  long-delayed  and  fondly-cherished  hop^ 
of  revenge  ;  and  all  that  catalogue  of  dark  and  merci- 
less passions  which  spring  flrom  the  right  of  private  war 
and  the  prevalence  of  family  feuds.    These  all  raged  in 
the  bosoms  of  the  opposed  leaders  and  combatants  ;  and 
the  exacerbation  they  produced,  was  shown  alike  by  the 
energy  of  their  preparations  and  the  cruelty  with  which 
they  fought.    Huntly,  Angus,  Errol,  and  Anchendown, 
since  their  refusal  of  the  act  of  abolition,  had  been  ga- 
thering their  strength,  and  were  now  busily  engaged  in 
levying  recruits,  ^rtly  at  their  own  chaiges,  partly 
with  Spanish  gold,  of  which  they  had  received  repeated 
supplies.    It  had  been  now  for  many  years  the  practice 
of  Elisabeth,  with  the  permission  of  James,  to  employ 
lafge  bodies  of  Scottish  auxiliaries  in  her  wars  in  the 
Low  Countries.    Scottish  troops,  also,  often  served  in 
Ireland :  and  the  Highland  chieft  had  long  driven  a  lu- 
crati?e  and  warlike  oommeroe  with  that  oonntry,  selling 
their  serrioes  to  the  highest  bidder,  and  canying  over 
large  bodies  of  pikemen,bowmen,and  evenof  hagbntteers, 
to  tiie  assistance  of  Elizabeth  or  her  enemies,  as  it  best 
suited  their  interest.     From  these  causes,  there  were 
now  in  Scotland  many  experienced  ofiioers  and  name- 
reus  bands  of  mercenaries,  ready,  like  the  Italian  Om- 
doUieriy  or  the  Swiss  bands,  to  offer  their  serriee  where- 
ever  they  heard  the  tuck  of  drum  or  the  clink  of  gold : 
and  as  Huntly  had  high  reputation  as  a  military  leader, 
lived  in  almost  regal  splendour  in  his  palace  at  Strath- 
bogie,  and  was  young,  generous,  and  brave,  the  Catholic 
camp  was  in  no  want  of  recruits,  and  soon  assnmed  a 
formidable  appearance.     He  was  now  also  joined  by 
Bothwell,  who,  driven  to  desperation  by  the  mortal 
hatred  of  the  Scottish  king  ;  his  recent  proscription  by 
the  Qneen  of  England  ;  his  desertion  by  the  Kiric,  who 
had  detected  his  deaUngs  with  the  Catholics ;  and  the 
hunting  down,  torturing,  and  execution  of  his  poor  Tas* 
sals,  had  been  unable  to  resist  the  bribes  held  out  to  him. 

The  pageants  attending  the  baptism  of  the  in- 
fant prince,  need  not,  after  all,  greatly  astonish 
an  age  which  has  witnessed  the  fooleries  of  the 
Eglinton  Tournament.  The  christening  took  place 
in  the  castle  of  Stirling  ^— 

And  when  the  solemn  ceremony  was  eondnded,  and 
the  king,  the  ambassadors  and  nobles,  with  the  qaeen 
and  her  ladies  of  honour,  retired  teom  the  chapel  to  the 
hall  of  state,  '^  the  cannons  of  the  castle  roared,  so  that 
therewith  the  earth  trembled ;  and  other  smaller  shot,** 
says  one  of  the  city  orators  of  the  tame,  **  made  their 
harmony  alter  their  kmd."  ....  It  is  amnsii^  to 
find  that  the  kug  himself  did  not  disdam  to  take  apart, 
apparelled  at  all  points  as  a  Christian  knight  of  Malta  ; 
whilst  a  worshipAl  baroD|  the  Lord  of  Pqcolengh,  with 


TYTLER'S  HISTORY  OF  SCOTLAND. 


93 


Lofd  Lindons  and  the  Abbot  of  Holyrood,  in  women's 
attire  and  gallaatlj  monnted,  enacted  three  amazons. 

We  are  etnmgly  tempted  to  oopy  out  Mr.  Tyt- 
ler's  spirited  and  clear  narrative  of  the  Battle  of 
GlmUvat,  which,  for  the  time,  overthrew  the  hopes 
of  the  Catholic  party  ;  hut  must  he  contented  with 
the  remarks  which  follow  the  account  of  an  action, 
in  which  all  the  chivalry  of  Scotland  were  engaged 
on  the  one  side  or  the  other,  and  in  which  that  able 
member  of  the  Church  militant,  Andrew  Mel  vil,  bore 
pike  in  hand,  as  representative  of  the  Kirk  : — 

James  had  now  ftalfiUed  all  his  promises  to  Elisabeth; 
and  by  the  severity  with  which  he  had  put  down  the 
lebellion  of  the  Catholic  earls,  had  more  than  Axlfilled 
the  expectations  of  the  Kirk.  The  castles  and  houses 
which  were  said  to  have  been  polluted  by  the  mass, 
were  smoking  and  in  mins  ;  the  noblemen  and  gentry, 
wlHMe  only  petition  had  been,  that  they  shonld  be  per- 
mitted to  retain  their  estates,  and  have  their  rents 
tmumitied  to  them  in  the  banishment  which  they  had 
ehosen  rather  than  renounce  the  fkith  of  their  fathers, 
were  fugitives  and  wanderers,  hiding  in  the  caves  and 
foiesti,  and  dreading  every  hour  to  be  betrayed  into 
the  hands  of  their  enemies.  All  this  had  been  accom- 
ptiihtd  at  no  little  personal  risk :  for  the  king  was  snr- 
nuded  by  perpetual  plots  against  his  liberty,  and 
sonetlmes  even  against  his  life.  He  had  cheerfully 
endergoDe  great  privations:  had  impoverished  his  re- 
TeoDe,  inenrred  heavy  debts,  and  imposed  burdens  upon 
iiis  rabjects,  that  he  might,  by  one  great  elTort,  extin- 
goish  the  Catholic  fidth,  destroy  the  hopes  and  intrigues 
of  Sp&in,  and  relieye  the  Queen  of  England  fh>m  all  her 
fean.  He  had  done  this,  trusting  to  her  promises  of 
that  pecuniary  aid  which  was  absolutely  necessary  for 
the  payment  of  his  troops ;  and  before  he  set  out,  had 
despatched  bis  secretary.  Sir  Robert  Cockbum,  to  the 
Eogliflh  court,  with  the  perfect  confidence  that  every- 
thing whieh  had  been  undertaken  by  ^  his  good  sister  " 
would  be  fulfilled.  In  this,  however,  he  was  miserably 
disappointed.  Whilst  the  king  was  engaged  in  burning 
ud  razing  the  houses  of  the  Catholics,  Elizabeth  and 
the  now  venerable  Burghley  were  closeted  at  Green- 
wich, laying  their  heads  together  to  find  out  some 
plausible  excuse  for  stopping  the  payment  of  the  pro- 
mised supplies She  had 

Snt  excited  James  to  this  northern  expedition  by  flat- 
tery and  large  promises  of  support ;  she  now  forgot  all, 
and  deserted  him  without  scruple  or  remorse.  Such  a 
node  of  proceeding  roused  his  passion  to  a  pitch  of 
oniuaal  flsry ;  and  when  Sir  R.  Cockbum  returned,  the 
stona  broke  pitilessly  on  his  head. 

The  condition  of  the  Catholic  party  was  now 
rendered  desperate  by  the  arrest  of  Father 
Morton,  who  vms  said  to  be  an  emissary  of  the 
Pope  and  the  King  of  Spain,  and  who,  when 
pounced  upon,  tore  his  secret  instructions  with 
teeth.  But  enough  was  made  out  of  them  to 
eximinate  the  Popi^  lords  ;  and  Enrol  and  Huntly 
Riolved  to  retire  into  temporary  exile  : — 

It  was  in  vain  that  Father  Gordon,  Hnntly's  uncle, 
ttd  a  devoted  Catholic,  implored  them  to  remain :  in 
nta  that  on  a  solemn  occasion,  when  mass  was  said  for 
the  last  time  in  the  cathednd  church  at  Elgin,  this 
KtlooB  priest,  descending  from  the  high  altar  and 
■Mating  the  pulpit,  exhorted  them  not  to  depart,  but 
'ouin  in  their  native  country  and  hazard  all  for  the 
Ml    His  discourse  fell  on  deaf  ears ;  and  finding  en- 

<Rtty  fruitless,  he  resolved  to  accompany  them 

Scarcely  had  they  departed,  when  intelligence  of  Both- 
^Q  reached  oourt.  To  so  miserable  a  state  was  he  re- 
dseed,  that  he  had  been  seen  skulking  near  Perth  with 
^y  two  followers,  meanly  clad,  and  in  utter  destitu- 
tion. He  then  disappeared,  and  none  could  tell  his 
^ ;  bnt  he  relfmerged  in  Orkney,  probably,  like  his 
in^motts  namesake,  intending  to  turn  pirate.  He  had 
one  Bhip  and  a  fly-boat ;  and  his  desperate  fortunes  were 


still  followed,  from  attachment  or  adventure,  by  some 
of  his  old  "  Canutradoi,"  Colonel  Boyd,  Captain  Foster, 
and  a  few  other  gentlemen.  Apparently  he  was  not 
successful :  for  we  soon  hear  of  him  at  Paris,  in  corre- 
spondence with  his  profligate  associate  Archibald  Douglas. 

Instead  of  pursuing  the  thread  of  general  his- 
tory, or  of  the  history  of  the  endless  feuds  and 
complicated  factions  of  Scotland,  we  are  induced 
to  extract,  for  its  unity  and  completeness,  this 
Clarendon-like  portrait  of  the  Chancellor  Maitland. 
The  Earl  of  Mar,  to  whom  the  care  and  education 
of  the  infant  prince  had  been  confided,  was  the 
especial  object  of  Maitland's  dislike  and  jealousy, 
and  Mar  was  also  in  disgrace  with  the  queen,  who 
wished  herself  to  be  her  child's  guardian,  and  who 
took  sick  upon  the  refusal  of  the  kingto  comply  with 
her  wishes.  The  murder  of  a  retainer  of  Mar,  by 
individuals— the  Laird  of  Dunipace  assisted  by  the 
Bruces  and  Livingstones — who  belonged  to  the 
Chancellor's  faction,  exasperated  the  feud  ;  but — 

The  chancellor  had  now  gained  to  his  side  the  power- 
fhl  assistance  of  the  house  of  Hamilton ;  so  that  his 
strength  was  almost  irresistible.  With  his  strength,  how- 
ever, increased  the  odium  and  unpopularity  of  his  mea- 
sures. It  was  now  well  known  tiiat  he  had  been  the 
chief  assistant  of  Huntly  in  the  murder  of  Murray. 
He  vnts  branded  as  a  hypocrite ;  all  smiles  and  pro- 
fessions upon  the  seat  of  justice,  but  deep,  bloody,  and 
unscrupulous  when  off  it ;  expressing  great  love  to  the 
Kirk  and  the  ministers,  yet  careless  of  practical  reli- 
gion ;  humble  and  devoted,  as  he  said,  to  his  sovereign, 
yet  really  so  haughty,  that  he  did  not  hesitate  to  mea- 
sure his  strength  with  the  highest  nobles  in  the  land.  It 
was  this  which  provoked  Mar,  Argyll,  and  the  rest  of  the 
ancient  earls. 

On  one  occasion  James,  observing  Maitland's  defiance, 
took  him  roundly  to  task — reminding  him  that  he  was 
but  his  creatnre,  a  man  of  yesterday,  a  cadet  of  a  mean 
house  compared  with  Mar,  who  had  a  dozen  vassals  for 
his  one  ;  and  that  it  ill  became  him  to  enter  into  proud 
speeches,  or  compare  himself  with  the  old  nobles,  and 
raise  factions  with  Glammis  and  the  queen  against  the 
master  to  whom  he  owed  alL  Pasquils,  too,  and  biting 
epigrams,  prognosticating  some  fktal  end,  were  found 
pinned  to  his  seat  in  the  court.  But  Maitland  was  na- 
turally courageous,  and  believed  himself  powerftil  enough 
to  keep  head  against  the  worst. 

The  Chancellor  Maitland  lord  Thirlstaae,  had  now, 
for  some  years,  ruled  the  court  and  the  country  with  a 
firm,  unchallenged,  and,  as  many  thought,  a  haughty 
superiority.  He  had  i^ven  mortal  offence  to  the  queen  ; 
had  provoked  the  hostility  of  the  highest  nobles  of  the 
land ;  and,  it  was  whispered,  was  more  feared  than 
loved  by  his  royal  master.  But  he  had  kept  his  ground, 
partly  by  superiority  in  practical  business  talents  to  all 
his  competitors  ;  pa^y  by  that  deep  political  sagacity 
and  foresight  which  made  Burghley  pronounce  him  the 
"  wisest  man  in  Scotland  ** ;  and,  not  least  of  all,  by  that 
high  personal  courage  and  somewhat  unscrupulous  fa- 
miliarity with  conspiracy,  and  even  with  blood,  which 
blotted  most  men  of  this  semi-barbarous  age.  He  had, 
besides,  been  a  pretty  consistent  Protestant ;  and  al- 
though in  earlier  years  he  had  attacked  some  of 
Knox's  political  dicta,  yet  recently,  the  strong  and 
decided  part  he  had  adopted  against  Huntly  and  the 
Catholic  earls  made  him  a  favourite  with  the  minis- 
ters of  the  Kirk.  So  resistless  had  he  now  become, 
that  the  queen  and  her  friends  had  renounced  all  oppo- 
sition, and  joined  his  faction  against  Mar  the  governor 
of  the  prince,  the  favourite  of  his  royal  master,  and  one 
of  the  oldest  and  most  powerful  of  the  higher  nobles. 
In  this  his  palmy  state,  when  plotting  new  schemes  of 
ambition,  and  infiaming  the  king  against  the  qneen; 
meetmg  Cessford  and  Bnccleugh,  and  his  other  asso- 
ciates, in  night  trysts ;  marshalling  secretly  his  whole 
strength,  and  layins  a  **  platt,"  as  it  was  then  called,  or 
conspiracy  against  Mar,  bj  which  he  hoped  to  hitfl  bira 


94 


TYTLER'S  HISTORY  OP  SCOTLAND. 


from  his  height  of  power,  a&d  role  meheeked  oyer  his 
soToreign  |  he  was  saddenly  seised  with  a  mortal  dis- 
temper. At  first  he  straggled  fleroely  against  it,  tried 
to  throw  it  oH,  rode  restlessly  from  place  to  place,  and 
speared  so  aotiTo  that  it  was  ennently  said  the  siok- 
ness  was  only  one  of  his  old  pretenoes.  Bnt  at  last  the 
malady  mastered  him,  threw  him  on  his  eoueh,  and  com- 
pelled him,  in  fear  and  remorse,  to  send  for  the  minis- 
ters of  the  Kirk,  and  implore  a  yisit  from  the  king. 
James  resisted  repeated  messages  :  it  was  eyen  said  he 
had  whispered  in  a  conrtier's  ear  that  it  would  he  a 
small  matter  if  the  chanoellorwere  hanged  :  and  when 
Robert  Brace«  one  of  the  leading  ministers,  rode  at  four 
in  the  morning  to  Thirlstane,  he  found  the  dying  states- 
man tall  of  penitence  for  neglected  opportunities,  im- 
ploring the  prayers  of  the  Kirk,  and  promising  to  make 
many  disooyeries  of  strange  matters,  if  God  granted  him 
tine  for  amendment  and  reformation.  What  appeared 
to  weigh  heayiest  on  his  conscience  was  the  part  he 
had  acted  in  sowing  dissension  between  the  kmg  and 
qneen  ;  and  he  seemed  much  shaken  by  fears  that  many 
dark  dealings  would  come  out  on  this  subject.  He  ex- 
pressed sonow,  also,  for  his  **  partial  information  against 
John  Knox  and  other  good  men  ;*'  and  when  asked  what 
adyioe  he  would  leave  to  the  king  for  the  management 


of  his  estate,  shook  his  head,  ohserring,  <*  it  wis  too  l&ts 
ipeer*d,"  as  his  thoughts  were  on  another  world.  Even 
his  enemies,  who  h^i  quoted  against  him  the  Italian 
adi^, "  11  perieulo  pa$$cao,  U  »atUo  gabato/*  rejoiced  at 
last  to  find  that  the  sickness  was  no  counterfeit ;  and 
were  little  able  to  restrain  their  satisfaction  when  news 
arriyed  at  eourt  that  the  chancellor  was  no  more.  He 
died  at  Thirlstane  on  the  night  of  the  3d  Octobtr;  and 
John  Colvil,  his  bitter  enemy,  exultingly  wrote  to  Eng- 
land that  Ids  faction  or  party  were  headless,  and  must 
fall  to  pieces  :  whilst  his  royal  master  publicly  lamented 
and  seeretly  rejoiced ;  inditing  to  his  memory  a  \afjn 
poetieal  panegyric  in  the  shape  of  an  epitaph,  and  ob- 
serring,  niat  he  would  w4  ken  who  next  should  hsTe 
the  Seals,  and  was  resoWed  no  more  to  use  great  men 
or  chancellors  in  his  aflkirs,  but  suoh  as  he  could  comet 
and  were  hangable.  All  things,  howeyer,  were  thiown 
loose  and  into  oonftiaion  by  his  death.  The  Borden, 
which  had  been  for  some  time  in  disorder,  becano  the 
daily  scenes  of  hayoc,  theft,  and  murder ;  torn  irith 
fouds  between  the  Maxwells  and  the  Douglasea;  la- 
yaged  by  inyasions  of  the  English;  and  so  reckless  of 
all  restraint,  that  the  personal  presence  of  the  king  was 
loudly  called  for. 

(To  he  c<mdnd$d «»  <mr  umA,) 


THE  SONG  OF  "THE  STAEV'D  BY  LAW.''* 


When  you  do 

WifH  nothing  at  all  to  do, 

*  With  eyelids  heavy  and  red,** 
A  poor  man  sat  in  a  fireless  room; 

Starring  for  want  of  bread — 
Bread — bread— bread. 

To  fill  his  hungiy  maw  ; 
Yet  still  he  sang,  in  a  dolorous  tone, 

The  song  of  "  The  stary'd  by  Law.*' 

Want — want — want 

Alike  when  day  's  begun. 
Want — ^want— want 

As  when  the  day  is  done. 
They  say  the  Turks  are  infidels ; 

But  oh  1  what  joy  to  be 
Without  such  Laws,  with  Turks,  if  this 

Li  C3iristianity  I 

Want— wani— want — 

Misery  1  to  want  a  meal } 
Want— want— want. 

Till  my  brain  begins  to  reel, 
With  a  stir  and  a  start  to  leap  my  heart. 

Till  rock'd  by  its  restless  beat 
To  sleep,  in  a  dream,  as  awake,  I  seem 

To  oraye  for— bread  to  eat. 

0  Lords  and  Commons !  0  Parliament  I 

Ye  know  not  the  eyils,  sure, 
Or  Demons  ye  were,  not  Christian  men. 

Of  your  selfish  legislature : 
For  bread— bread — ^bread 

We  cry  (and  ye  heed  not)  aloud; 
For  bread  we  die  :  for  while  we  cry. 

With  winding  sheet  and  shroud — 

Stifles  our  breath  impending  death ; 

And  better  surely  is 
Its  catan  and  deep  unbroken  sleep 

Than  hnngw-agonies; 
Than  day  by  day,  to  pangs  a  prey 

I  eaanot  tell,  to  liye. 
To  beg  and  pray  for,  day  by  day, 

The  bread  ye  will  not  giye. 

Want — ^want — ^want — 

I  cannot  help  but  groan, 
Want— want— want. 

Bread— and  ye  giye  us  a  stone. 


«  You  take  my  life 
take  the  mean*  whereby  I  liye.^ 

So  ghastly  and  wan,  I  scarcely  am  man  ; 

For  the  diff*rence  is  slight  to  see. 
When  the  lamp-light  f^ls  on  the  dreary  walls, 

Between  my  shadow  and  me. 
Want — ^want— want — 

In  chains,  in  prison  barr'd. 
The  malefactor's  lot 

Is  not  as  mine  so  hard ! 
Is  not  as  mine  so  hard, 

Because  on  bread  he  feeds. 
On  bread— on  bread— on  blessed  bread, 

Though  puniah'd  for  misdeeds. 
Want— want— want 

As  well  in  the  vernal  prime. 
Want — ^want — ^want 

As  in  the  wintry  time. 
When  the  little  Robins  twit  me,  ae 

They  pick  up  from  the  snow 
The  crumbs  of  bread,  that  pitying  hands 

Out  from  the  window  throw. 
Oh,  with  the  fresh  blood  flowing  through 

My  inrigorated  yeins. 
As  once  I  would,  that  now  I  might 

Roam  o'er  the  yerdant  plains  ! 
As  when  I  was  a  boy,  O  God  ! 

That  I  again  might  feel, 
.  (With  meat  and  bread  the  table  spread,) 

The  luxury  of  a  meal  1 
Victim  of  yicious  laws  I  starve — 

The  last— for  oh  !  I  hear 
The  knell  of  their  extinction  ring, 

More  sensibly  and  clear ! 
Through  Britain  wide,  on  every  side. 

It  peals  out  in  the  air. 
And  they  soon  shall  be  number'd  with  the 

Abhorred  things  that  were. 
With  nothmg  at  all  to  do, 

"  With  eyelids  heavy  and  red,'* 
A  poor  man  sat  in  a  fireless  room. 

Starving  for  want  of  bread; 
Bread — ^bread — ^bread, 

To  fill  his  hungry  maw, 
Yet  still  he  sang,  in  a  dolorous  tone, 

(Law-makers  listen  to  his  moan  !) 
The  song  of  **  The  starv'd  by  Law.'* 


*  We  need  not  tell  that  this  is  a  humble  paraphrase  of  Mr.  HoodH  admirable  Swg 
ttst,  if  there  be  is  England  more  lufferen  than  the  shirt-makers.^^ ,  71 M, 


q/  the  Shirt ;  but  ^e  not  vrithout  iti 


»s 


AUSTRALIAN  SKETCHES. 

BY  THOMAS  m'cOHBIE, 

No.  in.— .MY  NEIGHBOURHOOD. 


I  HATS,  onoe  or  twice,  referred  to  the  remarkable 
ingndienta  of  which  the  society  of  the  colonies 
bcompoimded ;  and  I  hare  no  hesitation  in  aseert- 
iog,  farther,  that  those  who  find  pleasure  in  obsenr- 
ingtlie  varioiia  pecnliarities  of  character  amongst 
mankind,  may  wander  the  world  over  without  find- 
ing a  more  complete  diversification.  One  of  the 
kading  features  of  colonial  society,  is  the  unend- 
ing change,  like  the  foaming  billows  of  the  ocean, 
wliidi,  as  UieyroU  onwards  in  perpetual  agitation, 
era-  and  anon  change  their  appearance  and  pro- 
portbna.  One  lofty  ridge  of  water  sweeps  for- 
wud  majestically ;  in  a  minute  it  is  gone ;  and 
thft  looker-on  beholds  it  not  again ;  but  its  place 
ifl  instantly  supplied  by  another  equally  grand, 
fanned,  perhaps,  horn  the  ruins  of  its  pzedece»- 

Uneading  change  seems  to  rule  the  destinies  of 
those  who  inhabit  our  colonial  towns.  We  observe 
s  nsn  one  day  living  in  princely  style,  caressed 
iJid  envied ;  in  a  short  period  of  time  he  is  totaUy 
broken  down,  without  a  penny  in  the  world,  and 
ahonned  and  maliciously  spoken  of  to  boot  These 
sudden  turns  of  fortune  are  caused,  in  some  mea- 
niie,  by  the  constitution  of  society,  and  the  eager- 
ness of  each  member  to  be  rich  and  great.  The 
great  fitcilities  which  are  afforded,  in  times  of  pros- 
perity, for  adventurers  to  enter  business,  and  float 
for  a  length  of  time  upon  a  paper  credit,  tends  to 
foster  those  quick  rises  and  as  quick  downfalls. 
It  is  not  my  intention,  however,  here  to  enter  into 
s  lengthy  dissertation  upon  the  many  capricious 
tricks  which  dame  Fortune  plays  her  votaries  in  the 
new  wiffld ;  but  merely,  before  commencing  a  de- 
scription of  one  or  two  of  my  Neighbours,  to  make 
the  reader  aware  of  the  varieties  of  fortune  which 
many  of  them  may  have  experienced. 

The  inhabitants  of  our  colonial  towns  are  essen- 
tially a  migratory  people :  for  all  classes  alike  are 
actuated  by  a  constant  desire  for  change.  We 
thus  often  find  a  tradesman  one  day  in  Sydney ; 
the  next  in  Van  Diemen's  Land ;  shortly  afte^- 
warda^  he  will  be  found  in  Port  Phillip,  or  South 
Anstralia  ;  and  from  thence,  ten  to  one  but  he  is 
off  to  Swan  River,  New  Zealand,  the  South  Sea 
IsUnds,  or  the  Gulf  of  Carpentaria,  They  are 
cqnaily  unfixed  in  their  avocations ;  and  it  is  far 
fiom  uncommon  to  find  a  man  shop-keeping  one 
snath,  and  fanning  sheep  the  next ;  then,  perhaps, 
tuning  his  attention  to  keeping  a  tavern,  build- 
ing baldngy  or,  it  may  be,  turned  Methodist  par- 
ion.  Eveny  person,  it  would  appear,  who  enters 
the  colony,  begins  imperceptibly  to  be  infected 
with  the  same  desires :  for  the  love  of  change  in- 
cneses ;  ahhough,  with  many  in  the  higher  ranks 
of  life,  it  is  an  utter  impossibility  to  indulge  in  this 
pieptiiaity ;  as»  having  engaged  in  business,  it  is,  of 
eouas,  difficult  to  wind  up  and  be  off  upon  any 
nA  whim*   Bnai  the  poor  mw  hae^  at  any  nte. 


this  advantage,  that  if  he  have  little  worldly  sub- 
stance to  look  after,  he  may,  when  it  strikes  him, 
take  that  little  upon  his  shoulders  and  be  off. 
There  is  another  less  honest  method,  viz.,  boUwff, 
which  is  far  from  uncommon,  and  entails  severe 
loss  upon  the  inhabitants  and  traders :  it  always 
has  been  a  common  thing ;  and  will  continue  so, 
while  credit  is  cheap,  and  so  many  unprincipled 
men  in  the  colony. 

In  speaking  of  my  Neighbours,  I  shall  not  take 
up  much  of  my  reader's  time  with  those  moving  in 
the  higher  circles,  and  of  ordinary  education. 
Most  of  them,  it  is  true,  have  risen  firom  small  be- 
gumings ;  yet,  with  the  exception  that  they  are 
more  overbearing,  more  ambitious  to  cut  a  figure, 
and  perhaps  more  quarrelsome  and  restless,  they 
are  not  materially  different  from  the  traders  of 
our  laige  towns  at  home.  It  is  of  those  in  the 
lower  ranks  of  society  that  I  mean  to  speak :  the 
flickerers  about  our  towns;  the  here-and-there« 
ians  of  our  colonies. 

I  have  not  been  any  great  length  of  time  in  my 
present  residence.  I  could  not  specify  the  exact 
day  when  I  entered ;  but  I  should  suppose  it 
does  not  exceed  twelve  months  from  this  date. 
When  I  first  came,  I  was,  of  course,  looked  upon 
as  a  stranger ;  and  now  I  am  one  of  the  oldest  in- 
habitants in  the  street.  Many  of  the  houses  have 
changed  tenants  often  since  then.  Some  show  every 
appearance  of  having  bettered  their  fortunes ;  and 
others,on  the  contrary,  show  a  melancholy  spectacle 
of  dirt  and  dissipation,  where  neatness  and  clean- 
liness formerly  reigned.  In  every  comer,  new 
buildings  have  sprung  up— stores,  public- houses, 
and  shops :  so  that  the  street  does  not  appear  the 
same  as  in  the  old  times,  (one  year  back.) 

The  oldest  inhabitant^  next  to  myself,  in  the 
lower  part  of  the  street,  is  the  grocer  on  the  oppo- 
site side.  He  was  in  a  small  shop  lower  down, 
and  having  been  successful  in  trade,  he  has  com- 
menced in  the  large  dashing  shop,and  is  attempting 
now  to  do  a  cutting  trade.  Two  years  ago,  he  was 
in  a  chain-gang  ;  but  nothing  would  give  him  such 
ofienoe  as  to  mention  that  circumstance  now;  as 
he  pretends  to  be  scrupulously  honest,  and  imagines 
thatnoneareaware(rfhisformerdegradingcondition. 
With  a  view  to  deceive  his  acquaintances  yet  faiv 
ther,  he  gives  it  out,  that  he  has  been  but  a  year  or 
two  in  the  colony,  and  talks  of  his  having  come 
out  in  a  ship,  which  most  likely  he  never  saw. 
This  is  the  only  weak  point  in  his  character ;  and 
he  is,  upon  the  whole,  a  shrewd,  hard-working 
fellow,  who  now  finding  it  to  his  advantage  to  be 
honest,  acts  well  towards  those  who  have  dealings 
with  him ;  but  who,  had  he  not  a  purpose  to  gain, 
would  rob  or  steal  wholesale.  He  is,  altogether, 
the  most  thrivmg  tradesman  in  the  neighbourhood, 
and  has  of  late  b^gun  to  acquire  considerable  stand- 
in;*    Hie  uuno  appeared  in  the  laft  requisition 


96 


AUSTRALIAN  SKETCHES. 


to  the  sheriff,  calling  a  public  meeting  of  the  inha- 
bitants, to  petition  against  the  enormous  act,  as  it 
was  named,  then  about  to  be  passed,  and  which 
contemplated  placing  it  in  the  power  of  any  con* 
stable  to  seize  and  confine  dogs  wandering  about 
the  streets.  There  appeared  a  placard,  with  a  long 
array  of  names ;  and  as  a  copy  had  been  posted  on 
the  wall  of  the  house  just  by  our  comer,  he  was 
observed  to  steal  out  half-a-dozen  times  a-day, 
to  have  the  pleasure  of  reading  his  own  name  in 
the  list.  Before  the  event,  pregnant  with  such 
consequence,  he  had  been  accustomed  to  go  about 
in  his  shirt-sleeves ;  but  from  that  day  he  cast 
aside  his  vulgar  habits,  and  started  life  on  a  higher 
scale  ;  and  in  a  good  blue  coat  with  brass  buttons, 
not  a  man  in  the  colony  now  carried  his  head 
higher,  or  had  a  better  opinion  of  himself. 

When  he  commenced,  merchandize  was  cheap, 
and  the  markets  glutted.  He  saw,  in  a  very  short 
time,  the  great  disadvantage  of  having  to  work, 
single-handed,  as  the  saying  is  ;  and  he  married. 
Fortunately  for  him,  he  met  with  a  good  wife,  a 
quiet,  good-humoured  little  woman,  who  kept  the 
shop  open  while  he  was  attending  auctions  and 
making  purchases.  In  this  way,  during  the  first 
year,  he  had  made  as  much  as  a  hundred  pounds ; 
and  this,  to  a  man  in  his  station,  who  commenced 
with  a  farthing,  was  a  great  deal.  I  have  invari- 
ably observed,  that  those  who  have  an  industrious 
wife  to  look  after  the  trade  at  home,  when  they 
are  abroad  upon  business,  get  forward  much 
faster  than  the  unmarried,  or  those  whose  wives 
are  above  attending  to  business :  in  a  colony,  it 
gives  them  an  advantage  of  no  ordinary  kind. 
Good  servants  and  shopkeepers,  are  not  to  be  had ; 
and  the  trader  has  his  choice  to  stay  at  home  and 
attend  to  business,  or  go  out  of  doors  and  be  plun- 
dered. This  was,  then,  the  grand  secret  of  his 
success  :  when  he  was  about  town  looking  out  for 
goods  to  suit  his  business,  his  wife  served  the  cus- 
tomers in  his  absence.  In  this  way,  he  became  ac- 
quainted with  the  best  markets  for  his  particular 
goods ;  and  as  he  always  went  with  the  cash  in  his 
hand,  he  was,  of  course,  served  well. 

He  is,  or  pretends  to  be,  well  acquainted  with 
the  qualities  of  the  difiterent  articles  in  which  he 
deals ;  but  he  is  most  at  home  when  bargaining 
about  glass  or  stoneware.  Most  of  the  old  women 
about  the  town  come  to  his  establishment  when  in 
want  of  teapots  or  decanters.  He  serves  them 
with  an  air  altogether  his  own  ;  of  every  article 
which  he  exhibits,  he  has  something  to  say  in  re- 
commendation. He  has  many  wise  saws,  which 
he  repeats  with  considerable  effect;  and  with  a 
good  customer,  he  even  condescends  to  flattery,  at 
which  he  is  an  adept.  A  person  enters  his  diop, 
enticed  by  some  showy  article  in  the  window,  just 
to  have  a  look,  only  a  look,  and  determined  not  to 
buy  on  any  account.  Never,  however,  was  there 
a  more  complete  mistake.  The  doomed  person 
hears  him  speak,  and  buys  one  article  after  another ; 
and  seldom  leaves  the  diop  without  leaving  a  cer- 
tain number  of  shillings  for  a  certain  number  of 
articles  of  crockery.  Should  it  be  a  stranger,  he 
is  almost  certain  to  have  some  flaw  in  his  teapot, 
or  a  cracked  handle  to  his  jug.    Perhaps,  indigniint  I 


at  being  so  served  out,  he  calls  next  day  in  a  pas- 
sion, when  he  is  soothed  by  the  witching  tongue  of 
the  stoneware-dealer,  and  prevailed  upon  to  become 
a  purchaser  again.  Most  people  of  anything  like 
original  genius,  study  something,  and  have  a  great 
flavour  for  that  particular  branch  of  study,  and 
perhaps  pride  themselves  upon  their  acquirements 
in  it :  his  forte  was  selling  crockery. 

He  neither  takes  nor  gives  credit.  The  best  of 
all  reasons  prevented  him  from  doing  the  former ; 
as,  when  he  entered  into  trade,  no  one  would  trust 
him :  and  being  well  aware  of  this,  he  did  not  put 
it  in  the  power  of  any  to  give  him  the  pain  of  a  re- 
fusal. There  is,  however,  a  certain  ceremony  to 
be  observed  upon  occasions  of  his  paying  a  mer- 
chant a  considerable  sum  of  money.  When  the 
prices  have  been  agreed  upon,  and  he  begins  to 
tell  down,  the  mex^ohant  says,  ^  Oh !  it  does  not 
signify  your  paying  for  this  parcel  to-day." — "  Oh ! 
yes,"  replies  he ;  « I  never  take  credit."  «  Well," 
continues  the  merchant,  **  we  must  be  as  easy  with 
you  as  we  can."  Not  to  make  a  feint  of  ofiering 
credit,  would  be  taken  as  little  else  than  an  in- 
sult ;  while  each  party  is  aware  that  it  is  merely 
a  form  of  civility  to  offer  the  goods  npon  credit ; 
and  should  the  offer  be  accepted,  the  merchant 
would  endeavour  to  keep  back  the  goods  by  some 
trivial  excuse,  or  perhaps  without  any  excuse  at 
all :  for,  in  the  colonies,  traders  use  little  ceremony 
where  their  interests  are  concerned.  So  long  as 
the  cash  appears,  however,  the  merchant  is  all 
kindness  and  civiUty  :  for  nothing  is  so  acceptable 
in  the  colonies  as  ready  money. 

The  next  person  of  importance  in  the  Neighbour- 
hood is  the  auctioneer.  He  is  nearly  as  old  an  in- 
habitant as  the  grocer,  and  there  exists  some  little 
jealousy  between  them  as  to  their  respective  im- 
portance. The  auctioneer  is  a  little,  good-humoured 
fellow,  with  no  little  ambition  to  get  forward  in 
his  profesuon.  He  dresses  generally  after  the 
style  of  a  sportsman,  and  evidently  wishes  to  he 
considered  one  of  the  knowing  ones.  He  has  no 
horse  ;  but  he  is  never  seen  without  being  dressed 
as  if  he  had  come  from  a  riding-school,  or  a  race. 
He  carries  a  whip,  and  always  wears  spurs,  of 
which  he  appears  not  a  little  proud.  Other  sports- 
men may  pride  themselves  upon  their  fine  breed 
of  horses— every  one  to  his  taste ;  and  his  taste  is 
for  splendid  spurs. 

Before  proceeding  farther  with  my  notice  of  the 
auctioneer,  I  will  take  the  liberty  of  informing  my 
readers  of  a  few  interesting  particulars  reganling 
that  important  body — ^the colonial  auctioneers.  The 
members  of  this  body  are  as  difllerent  in  their  style 
of  business  as  may  be :  from  the  houses  that  sell 
many  thousand  pounds'  worth  of  property  a-day, 
and  are  as  wealthy  as  princes  ;  to  the  poor,  half- 
starved  schemer  attempting  to  keep  soul  and  body 
together  by  holding  evening  sales  of  small  wares. 
Many  of  the  first  class  have  acquired  enormous 
fortunes,  and  may,  in  a  manner,  be  classed  with 
the  merchants ;  as,  although  nominally  auctioneers, 
a  part  of  their  business  is  exactly  the  same  as  that 
of  the  Mincing  Lane  produce-brokers,  who  are 
considered  merchants,  and  rank  as  such  in  the  city 
of  London,    It  is  no  uncommon  thing  for  property 


MY  NEIGHBOURHOOD. 


97 


to  the  amount  of  Ahy,  and  a  hundred  thousand 
pounds  to  be  disposed  of  by  the  great  auctioneers 
in  a  single  day.  Stock,  land,  buildings,  cargoes 
of  merchandize,  all  pass  through  their  hands.  The 
principal  business  falls  generally  to  the  lot  of  one 
or  two ;  and  although  attempts  are  daily  made  by 
new  auctioneers  to  push  forward,  they  are  over- 
looked by  the  public,  and  generally  give  orer  in  a 
Tery  short  time.  If  one  of  those  who  are  in  an 
extensiye  way  of  business  should  turn  out  a  rogue^ 
and  bolt,  it  spreads  ruin  far  and  wide :  so  much 
are  tbey  in  the  confidence  of  all  classes  of  the  com- 
munity. 

The  night  auctioneers  are  a  class,  above  all 

others,  noted  for  scheming :  in  fact,  their  exbtence 

depends  upon  it.     They  attend  the  day  auctions, 

ani  pick  up  whatever  is  likely  to  sell :  if  damaged, 

they  manage  to  sell  it  as  sound,  as  the  light  in  the 

room  is  perhaps  uncertain,  and  the  crowd  great. 

The  money  must  be  forthcoming  on  the  fall  of  the 

hammer ;  and  vain  is  any  after-complaint,  as  the 

auctioneer  assumes  a  look  of  the  utmost  incredu- 

%  and  cold  displeasure,  and  asks  the  complainant 

not  to  take  up   his  time  with  such  nonsense. 

Should  one    or   two   drunk  fellows   happen  to 

stomble  in,  and  begin  to  bid,  which  is  far  from 

beii^  uncommon,  the  night  auctioneer  pricks  up  his 

tits,  and  contrives  to  animate  the  strangers  with 

a  desire  to  speculate.     The  bait  takes  :  a  drunken 

man  begins  to  bid,  a  hanger-on  of  the  room  bids 

against  him;  he  becomes  piqued  at  the  jeers  of 

the  crowd,  who  relish  the  joke  amazingly,  and 

adrances.    Still  the  other  bids,  and  thb  time  the 

auctioneer  smiles  vrith  the  crowd.     Determined  to 

pat  an  end  to  this  opposition,  the  drunken  man 

places  his  hat  upon  three  hairs  ;  and,  after  venting 

his  spleen  by  saying — "  I  will  show  you  who  has 

most  money,"  he  bawls  out — "  Mr. ^,  I  will 

give  you  such  a  sum."  No  person  now  dares  to 
speak ;  for  it  has  reached  a  price  three  times  its 
value :  the  article  is  knocked  dow^n,  the  auctioneer 
hands  it  to  the  fortunate  purchaser  with  a  great 
ihow  of  respect,  and  receives  the  money.  Article 
afUr  article  will,  some  evenings,  be  sold  in  this 
way,  and  the  auctioneer  will  bear  with  the  insolent 
abuse  of  a  drunkard  so  long  as  he  keeps  making 
puithases ;  but  not  a  minute  longer :  when  his 
money  becomes  exhausted,  he  must  keep  quiet,  or 
he  will  get  kicked  out. 

The  night  sales  generally  commence  about  six 
o'clock  in  the  evening,  or  perhaps  an  hour  later. 
For  half-an -hour  before  the  time  of  sale,  a  young 
man,  in  the  service  of  the  auctioneer,  takes  his 
stand  in  front  of  the  room,  and  rings  a  bell :  this 
iittracts  the  attention  of  the  casual  passengers,  and 
one  after  another  drops  in.  There  are,  also,  a  re- 
gular number  of  persons  who  attend  night  auc- 
tions for  amusement,  or  from  having  nothing  bet- 
ter to  do :  so  that,  altogether,  by  the  time  of  sale, 
s  respectable  audience  is  assembled.  It  is  impos- 
uhle,  however,  even  for  the  auctioneer  to  be  able  to 
say  what  humour  those  present  may  happen  to  be 
ia  ;  and  so  capricious  are  they,  that  some  evenings 
he  may  have  a  good  sale,  and  clear  money;  and 
there  are  other  times,  again,  when  he  is  hardly 
eble  to  get  a  bid.    The  articles  offered  are  of  as 


miscellaneous  a  description  as  may  well  be  con- 
ceived. Watches,  articles  of  jewellery,  boots  and 
shoes,  napkins,  ales  and  spirits,  pickles,  cloths, 
hats  and  caps^  books,  &c.,  &c.  The  buyer  may  be 
suited  if  he  wants  a  pen-knife,  or  if  he  wants  a 
dress-coat.  One  article  after  another  is  offered  to 
their  audience  by  the  night  auctioneers  with  a  per- 
severance which  nothing  can  tire.  If  no  one  will 
make  an  offer,  the  article  is  put  aside,  and  another 
article  put  up  for  sale.  The  night  auctioneer  must 
have  a  temper  which  nothing  can  ru£9e.  This  is, 
in  fact,  so  indispensable,  that  without  it  no  person 
need  attempt  to  sell  as  a  night  auctioneer.  If  he 
lose  temper  but  once,  the  public  are  made  aware 
of  his  weakness,  and  he  need  expect  no  peace  for 
the  future,  as  he  will  be  laughed  at,  and  bantered, 
and  every  means  used  to  put  him  in  a  passion ;  and, 
in  a  word,  he  may  go  and  try  his  hand  at  some- 
thing else  as  fast  as  possible. 

When  our  auctioneer  began,  I  did  not  consider 
him  as  at  all  likely  to  succeed.  He  had  for- 
merly acted  as  clerk  to  a  conveyancer,  and  could 
have  but  little  idea  of  the  business  of  an  auc- 
tioneer. His  room  was  just  by ;  and  as  I  felt 
some  little  anxiety  on  my  neighbour  s  account,  I 
determined  to  attend  the  first  evening,  and  witness 
his  success.  For  some  days  before,  great  prepar- 
ations had  been  going  forward  for  this  eventful 
evening  ;  shelves  were  erected,  package  after  pack- 
age came  to  the  door,  and  disappeared  in  a  most 
mysterious  manner.  A  large,  white  blind  had 
been  nailed  across  the  window,  so  as  to  prevent  any 
one  from  having  even  a  peep  at  the  interior  ar- 
rangements :  the  neighbours  were,  to  a  man,  fierce 
and  indignant  at  this  attempt  at  exclusion.  To- 
wards the  afternoon,  a  case  of  a  very  peculiar 
shape  was  brought  to  the  door  in  a  cart,  and  taken 
away  inside  in  an  instant,  and  the  door  of  the  room 
shut^  before  any  of  the  observant  spectators  had 
time  to  form  an  opinion  of  what  it  could  contain. 
But  when,  in  a  few  minutes  afterwards,  a  loud 
crash  was  heard  in  the  New  Auction  Mart,  the 
neighbours  with  one  accord,  rushed  to  the  door, 
with  a  full  determination  to  know  all  about  such 
strange  proceedings.  When  the  door  was  opened, 
they  rushed  en  masse  into  the  mart,  and  inquired 
what  was  the  matter.  They  found  everythhig  in 
confusion.  The  shelves  had  not  been  secure,  and 
had  gone  with  the  weight  of  the  mysterious  cases, 
and  their  contents  lay  about  in  sad  plight,  and  tliere 
was  such  a  horrid  smell  of  sour  ale,  vinegar,  &c.,  as 
made  the  greater  part  of  the  intensely-gratified 
neighbours  face  about  in  quick  time.  Great  fear 
was  entertained  by  some  that,  in  consequence  of 
the  accident,  the  Mart  would  not  be  opened  that 
evening ;  their  fears,  however,  were  found  to  be 
without  foundation,  as,  by  great  exertion  on  his 
part,  the  auctioneer  had  everything  ready  by  the 
appointed  hour. 

I  ordered  tea  early  that  evening,  as  I  was 
anxious  to  witness  the  dehut  of  the  little  auc- 
tioneer. I  was  one  of  the  very  first  at  the  Mart ; 
and  enjoyed  some  pleasure  from  viewing  the  man- 
ner in  which  it  had  been  fitted  up.  Originally  it 
had  been  a  dwelling-house,  witli  two  rooms  in 
firont^  divided  by  a  tliin  partition.    The  partitioti 


98 


AUSTRALIAN  SKETCHES. 


had  been  knocked  down,  ftnd  the  front  turned  into 
one  apartment.  Along  the  walls  of  one  end  had 
been  erected  the  shelves,  the  unfortunate  fate  of 
which  is  mentioned  above ;  the  room  had  a  bare 
look,  and  altogether  I  formed  my  opinion  that  the 
chances  were  against  his  succeeding. 

The  beU  kept  ringing.  In  a  few  minutes 
there  might  be  half-a-dozen  in  the  room,  and  the 
auctioneer  took  his  stand  on  a  counter  whieh  zan 
across  the  room  at  the  upper  end,  and  began.  I 
saw  at  once  he  was  a  poor  hand.  He  had  only  one 
or  two  set  phrases,  which  he  kept  repeating  with- 
out any  variation,  such  as  this : — *^  The  teapot  is 
up,  gentlemen."  **  What  do  yon  say  for  it,  gentle- 
men?" *^  Say  something  for  it^  gentlemen." 
There  came  a  rush  from  another  auction-room 
to  hear  the  new  auctioneer;  and  now  was  the 
time  to  try  his  patience.  A  dirty  fellow,  who 
appeared  to  consider  himself  a  wag,  o£Fered  some* 
thing  for  the  teapot,  about  90  per  cent,  less  than 
its  value.  A  general  laugh  followed :  for  this 
Worthy  seemed  to  be  looked  upon  by  his  fellows  as 
a  wit.  No  person  offered  to  advance  upon  the 
bid  ;  and  the  auctioneer  was  about  to  put  the  ar- 
ticle aside,  when  the  wag  roared  to  him  not  to  do 
so,  as  he  had  purchased  the  article.  This  the 
auctioneer deni^ ;  the  fellow  persisted;  and  the 
audience  laughed  as  if  [the  joke  was  exquisite. 
The  auctioneer  made  an  attempt  to  go  on  v^iih  the 
sale  ;  but  to  no  purpose.  The  fellow  would  roar 
out,  **  Are  you  to  give  me  the  teapot?"  and  this 
set  the  audience  a-laughing  again.  A  set  of  wicked 
boys  witnessing  the  sport,  determined  to  come 
in  for  their  share  of  it,  and  ran  out  to  procure  a 
handfol  of  sand.  They  returned ;  and  vrith  this, 
and  other  missUes,  began  to  annoy  the  auctioneer. 
All  this  would  have  tried  the  patience  of  most 
people  ;  but  he  was  a  brave  little  fellow,  and  bore 
it  ail  with  good  humour.  After  some  time,  a  few 
in  the  room,  observing  the  patience  of  the  poor 
auctioneer,  sided  with  him,  and  made  an  attempt 
to  restore  order.  They  had  great  difficulty  in  do- 
ing so;  and  had  to  threaten  the  accomplished 
purchaser  of  the  teapot  with  summary  vengeance 
from  the  arm  of  the  law  before  he  could  be  silenced. 
At  length,  however,  this  was  effected,  and  the  sale 
was  allowed  to  proceed.  It  was  not  in  his  power 
to  do  much  business  that  evening ;  but  his  good 
nature  and  patience  won  the  esteem  of  many,  and 
helped  to  lay  the  foundation  of  future  popula- 
rity. The  following  evening  he  had  a  much  bet- 
ter sale,  and  Ms  business  daily  improved.  It  soon 
became  apparent  that  the  auctioneer  was  a  thriv- 
ing man. 

He  had  been 'always  anxious  to  be  considered 
a  sporting  man  ;  but  he  settled  it,  and  confirmed 
the  minds  of  the  most  sceptical  of  his  neighbours 
as  to  his  pretennons  to  notoriety  in  the  sporting 
circles,  by  the  purchase  of  an  old  stock-horse,  which 
he  named  Jumping  Jack.  He  figured  away  at  the 
races  with  the  best  of  them ;  he  had  even  some 
thoughts,  as  he  informed  one  of  his  neighbours,  of 
entering  Jumping  Jack  for  a  steeple-chase.  Some 
cause  prevented  him,  as  the  name  did  not  appear 
in  the  list  of  horses  entered.  I  think  he  had  burnt 
)pB  fingers  with  {{prseflesh:  for  Jumping  Jack  was 


several  times  put  up  to  auction,  without  even  an 
ofler  being  made.  He  disappeared  at  last ;  and  I 
have  no  doubt  was  sold  at  a  great  sacrifice  by  the 
poor  little  auctioneer.  After  he  had  fairly  got 
Jumping  Jack  off  his  hands,  he  attended  better  to 
business ;  he  added  the  business  of  an  accountant 
and  conveyancer  to  his  auctioneering;  and  was, 
much  to  my  gratification,  getting  forward.  The 
grocer  was  the  only  one  in  Uie  neighbourhood  wbo 
did  not  like  him;  and  the  reason,  as  I  have 
already  stated,  was,  that  he  was  jealous  of  him. 
The  auctioneer  having  been  in  the  office  of  a  soli- 
citor, had  something  of  a  professional  turn  about 
him,  and  was  a  sort  of  attorney  himself  in  a  small 
way.  This  gave  him  some  standing ;  and  as  ba 
made  some  pretensions  to  be  consider^  a  gentle- 
man, the  grocer  was  up  in  arms  against  him 
immediately.  The  grocer's  vnfe,  who  liked  every- 
body, and  whom  everybody  liked,  had  for  a 
lengtli  of  time  tried  to  overcome  the  dislike  of  her 
husband  for  the  little  auctioneer.  She  had  even, 
upon  one  occasion,  invited  him  to  tea  without  the 
knowledge  of  her  husband,  thinking  the  fnendlj 
interchange  of  such  civilities  would  lead  to  a  pro- 
per understanding  between  them.  The  grocer, 
however,  was  made  of  sterner  stuff :  he  received 
the  auctioneer  with  forced  civility  ;  the  lady 
attempted  to  infuse  some  little  cordiality  into  the 
party ;  she  was  not  very  snccessfal.  Her  husband 
was  determined  not  to  be  thus  tricked  out  of  his 
long-cherished  ill-will  against  his  upstart  neigh- 
bour. He  never  relaxed  a  feature  of  his  counte- 
nance, but  maintained  the  supercilious  air  he  had 
assumed  upon  the  entrance  of  his  unlooked-for 
visiter.  The  auctioneer,  rather  taken  a-back  by 
the  cold  civility  of  the  landlord,  made  a  precipitate 
retreat.  The  wife,  left  alone  with  her  enraged 
husband,  received  a  black  eye  for  her  trouble. 
This  dckened  her  of  all  similar  attempts  for  the 
future.  The  auctioneer  and  grocer  were  now  on 
tenfold  worse  terms  than  before. 

The  next  of  my  Neighbours  that  deserves  to  be 
noticed  is  the  baker,  whose  little  shop  is  about 
four  doors  farther  down  the  street.  He  is  a  stout 
little  fellow,  a  half-breed,  by  his  complexion :  but 
from  what  quarter  of  the  globe  he  was  first 
ushered  upon  the  billows  of  life,  is  altogether  un- 
certain ;  indeed,  he  appears  to  have  been  knocking 
about  for  such  a  length  of  time,  as  to  have  but  a 
vague  recollection  of  his  early  life.  He  has  not 
been  engaged  long  in  the  baking  business,  as  he 
formerly  dealt  in  old  bottles  and  second-luuid  fur- 
niture ;  and  when  that  trade  was  done  up,  he  was 
under  the  necessity  of  turning  his  attention  to 
something  else.  He  had  not  a  fiurthing  of  capital, 
but  he  never  appeared  to  want  anything  that  was 
good  either  to  eat  or  drink.  As  for  dress,  that 
did  not  appear  to  give  him  any  thought ;  not  but 
that  he  had  his  fancies  as  well  as  others,  and  one 
of  them  vrssy  to  be  mistaken  for  a  seaman.  It 
was  amusing  to  witness  the  manner  in  which  he 
rolled  along  the  streets,  dressed  in  a  blue  jacket 
and  wide  trousers.  He  had  a  considerable  opin- 
ion of  his  person,  and  considered  himself  as  a 
knoveing,  roving  blade.  He  used  to  stand  in  the 
door  of  his  little  place,  and  criticise  the  servant 


MY  NEIGHBOURHOOD. 


girls  as  thej  tripped  along,  turning  up  his  little 
pQg-nose  at  some,  and  giring  others  a  sly  look  of 
idmiiation.  Whether  it  was  for  the  oddity  of 
his  maaneiB,  or  because  he  was  irresistible  in  his 
idyancesy  I  am  not  at  present  prepared  to  say,  but 
for  some  reason  he  was  a  favourite  with  many  of 
the  maidens  about  the  street ;  and  there  has  been 
gteat  talk  in  the  neighbourhood  of  his  taking  one 
of  them  home  as  his  spouse.  All  this,  however, 
he  denies :  in  fact^  he  professes  very  licentious 
principles,  and  is^  if  he  can  be  believed,  a  seoond 
Don  Juan.  The  name  is  now  only  wanting  to 
complete  the  picture  of  our  baker,  and  it  shall  not 
be  withheld — it  is  Joseph,  (or,  as  the  neighbours 
call  him,)  Joe  Tog. 

He  had  been  for  many  years  steward  of  a  vessel, 
and  in  this  way  had  worked  himself  out  to  the 
colonies.  His  first  attempt  in  business  was  in  Van 
Diemen  s  Land,  and  from  thence  he  had  wandered 
to  Swan  River ;  where  he  kept  a  shop  for  some 
monthly  and  afterwards  boM.  Since  that  time, 
be  had  been  wandering  about  the  colony  of  South 
Anstnlia,  and  various  other  parts  ;  and  as  he  was 
one  of  those  gentlemen  who  have  a  mortal  dislike 
to  Temain  long  in  a  place,  many  of  the  neighbours 
had  femied  an  opinion  that  Joe  would  boU.  One 
poor  wight  had  ventured  to  express  this  opinion : 
it  cune  to  the  ears  of  Joe,  who  took  it  in  high 
dadgcon.  When  exasperated,  he  spoke  hurriedly ; 
and  as  he  had  been  in  many  foreign  countries,  his 
langnage  was  a  mixture  of  nearly  every  language 
spoken  in  Europe— French,  Spanish,  and  Eng- 
lish, in  perfect  oonfosion;  a  discord  of  sounds. 
His  fory  against  the  person  who  had  dared  to  hurt 
hk  credit  was  so  great,  that  had  he  found  him  at 
home  at  the  time,  he  would  most  certainly  have 
stabbed  him:  for  Joe  had  Spanish  blood  in  his 
mnsy  wlierever  he  had  been  bom.  He  seized  a 
large  knife,  and  ran  to  his  house  with  the  express 
purpose  of  doing  so ;  but,  fortunately,  the  other 
was  fiixnn  home.  He  frightened  his  wife,  however, 
nearly  out  of  her  senses,  by  running  in,  weapon 
in  hand,  stammering  in  his  unintelligible  jargon, 
and  foaming  at  the  mouth  with  passion.  For  some 
time  it  was  impossible  to  pacify  him ;  and  he 
TDwed  the  deepest  vengeance  against  the  poor  man 
who  had  ofiended  him  so  grievously ;  and  the  poor 
man  was  oompeUed  to  hide  himself  for  some  days 
mitil  Joe's  blood-thirsty  humour  should  have  sub- 
sided. It  was  some  time  before  that  came  to  pass ; 
bntatlength,  after  nearly  every  one  of  the  neighbours 
bad  interposed  for  the  delinquent,  and  flattered  the 
Tanity  of  Joe,  by  magnifying  his  credit  and  stand- 
ing, he  was  pleased  to  aUow  the  neighbours  to 
interpose ;  and  alter  the  delinquent  had  made  a 
proper  apology,  he  was  generous  enough  to  forgive 
bim.  Tht  very  idea  that  his  neighbours  might 
nspect  him  of  attempting  to  boUy  vras  the  cause  of 
Joe's  remaining  so  long  in  the  place.  He  had 
a  secret  intention  at  that  time  to  boU;  but  he 
could  not  bear  that  any  one  should  entertain  so 
bw  an  estimate  of  his  character  as  to  conceive  him 
capable  of  so  bad  a  deed.  Joe  was  not  singular ; 
there  are  hundreds  in  the  colonies  who  can  be 
honest,  or  dishonest,  as  best  suits  their  purpose, 
bat  who,  at  the  same  time,  would  wish  to  be  con- 


sidered honourable  gentlooen,  and  would  be  in- 
dignant at  any  person  who  would  think  them  other* 
wise.  Joe  was,  therefore,  determined  to  falsify  tha 
opinion  which  hie  neighbours  had  formed;  and 
with  this  view,  he  began  to  work  hard,  and  push 
forward.  There  was  soon  a  decided  alteration  for 
the  better  in  the  appearance  of  the  shop.  He  was 
civil,  and  business  tiiickened  upon  him.  He  made 
a  little  money,  which  enabled  him  to  make  cheap 
purchases  of  flour.  He  was  now  no  longer  looked 
upon  as  the  scheming  adventurer ;  he  was  a  thriv- 
ing tradesman,  and  could  now  get  some  short 
credit  from  his  flour-merchant.  Such  are  the 
eventful  changes  of  a  colonial  life. 

There  is  another  august  personage  to  be  noticed 
before  the  sketch  of  our  Neighbourhood  isoomplete : 
the  landlord  of  the  hdtel  which  stands  at  the  cor- 
ner. Every  neighbourhood  has  at  least  one  or  two 
great  men.  An  English  town  has  its  Mayor,  its 
Member,  and,  if  it  be  a  county  town,  its  Sheriff^. 
Then,  again,  it  ia  divided  into  mahy  distinct  partem 
each  of  which  has  its  great  men.  One  man  is  great 
because  he  is,  or  has  been,  an  Alderman ;  another, 
because  he  is  wealthy,  or  engaged  extensively  in 
business ;  another,  because  he  is  a  political  lec- 
turer, or  has  written  a  work  in  four  volumes ; 
another,  because  he  has  succeeded  in  his  profession, 
and  acquired  the  reputation  of  being  wise  and 
learned.  In  the  colonies  there  is  a  shorter  way : 
a  man  is  weighed  in  the  balance  with  the  money 
at  his  command ;  and  the  greatest  weight  of  metal 
gains  the  victory.  Tliis  system  of  measuring  a 
man  by  his  purse  has  given  the  tavern-keepers  an 
undue  ascendancy:  from  the  vast  quantities  of 
liquors  consumed,  and  the  enormous  profits  realia- 
ed  in  that  branch  of  business,  it  neeesiMrily  follows^ 
that  those  embarked  in  it  acquire  riches.  In  a 
properly-constituted  society  this  would  not  entitle 
them  to  respect ;  as  it  is  earned  firom  the  pockets 
of  squalid  and  emaciated  drunkards,  who  have 
squandered  their  all,  and,  perhaps,  are  under  the 
necessity  of  robbing  and  murdering  to  supply  tha 
means  of  gratifying  their  craving  appetite.  But 
in  the  colonies,  all  this  is  overlooked  ;  a  man  may 
be  anything  if  he  have  money.  The  tavern-keep- 
ers have,  for  the  most  part,  a  great  amount  of 
ready  money  constantiy  in  their  hands :  they  are 
also  old  inhabitants;  and  from  these,  and  several 
other  causes,  are  looked  upon  as  great  men. 

The  hmdlord  of  ''The  Globe"  was  a  tall,  thin 
man,  with  rather  a  saturnine  expression  of  counte- 
nance, and  had  nothing  of  the  jolly  ^  bully-rook" 
air,  which  we  fancy  a  landlord  should  have.  He 
commonly  dressed  after  the  style  of  a  Methodist 
parson,  in  a  fnll  suit  of  thread-bare  black  clothes* 
He  had  always  an  air  of  mystery  about  him,  and 
was  remarkable  for  his  extreme  taciturnity,  sel- 
dom exchanging  more  than  a  word  or  two  with 
any  of  his  neighbours.  But,  notwithstanding  this 
appearance  of  sanctity,  he  was  one  of  the  most 
noted  extortioners  in  the  town ;  and  as  he  added 
the  business  of  a  money-lender  to  his  legitimate 
trade,  he  was  supposed  to  have  acquired  a  large 
property  by  the  two  combined.  Many  were  the 
unfortunate  wretches  whom  he  had  allured  to  their 
ruin,  b^  a  show  of  generosity  at  the  beginnings 


100 


AUSTRALIAN  SKETCHES. 


When  he  had  once  got  them  fairly  within  his 
clutches^  he  would  increase  his  demands,  time  after 
time,  until  he  had  taken  their  aU ;  and  to  crown 
his  ravenous  thirst  for  gold,  he  would  take  from 
them  the  last  necessary  of  life,  or  the  last  rag  of 
clothing  which  remained,  before  he  allowed  them 
to  escape.  Then,  indeed,  they  might  starve  for 
what  he  cared.  It  is  strange  that  a  man,  possessed 
of  such  a  cruel  and  unrelenting  heart,  should  be 
looked  upon  with  any  other  feeling  than  disgust 
Yet  all  was  overlooked,  because  he  was  a  rich  man. 
Who  cared  for  the  poor  wretches  whom  he  had 
ruined?  They  were  beggars;  without  money, 
friends,  or  habitation.  What  was  it  to  the  public 
that  their  means  had  all  gone  in  usuiy,  to  add  to 
the  great  riches  of  the  wealthy  money-lender. 
That  was  a  matter  of  business  with  which  they  hiid 
nothing  to  do :  the  one  was  rich,  and  courted,  and 
caressed;  the  other  was  despised  and  shunned. 
The  one  might  have  it  in  his  power  to  oblige ;  the 
other  might  wish  to  borrow  money. 

It  is  sad  to  observe  the  numbers  who  are  daily 
ruined  through  the  chicanery  and  dishonesty  of 
the  worthy  descendants  of  Shylock,  who  infest 
our  colonial  towns.  It  may  at  first  sight  be  deemed 
strange,  that  when  the  gracing  and  unrelenting 
character  of  the  men  we  have  described  becomes 
known,  any  person  in  his  right  senses,  should  be 
foolish  enough  to  be  ensnared  with  the  offer  of 
temporary  relief  which  they  hold  forth ;  but  when 
we  reflect  for  a  moment  upon  the  intensity  of 
grasp  with  which  men  cling  to  rank  and  charac- 
ter, and  untarnished  mercantile  names,  the  inge- 
nuity with  which  they  wiU  day  after  day  over- 
come difficulties  which  seem  almost  gigantic,  and 
linger  out  the  term  which  intervenes  between  them 
and  .what  seems  worse  than  death — ^the  scorn  of 
the  world — ^the  cdd  sneer  of  former  rivals — ^the 
deep  curse  of  the  unsuspecting  creditor,  or,  worse 
than  all,  the  affected  pity  of  some  one  more  exqui- 
sitely accomplished  in  the  art  of  torture,  which  falls 
upon  the  heart  of  a  man  of  keen  feelings  with  a 
a  chilling,  blighting  anguish  which  makes  him  la- 
ment and  wish  his  dishonoured  head  had  gone 
down  to  the  grave  in  peace, — ^the  mystery  is  solved. 
It  is  the  desire  to  maintain  a  place  in  the  world's 
esteem,  which  lays  men  open  to  the  snares  of  the 
money-lenders.    They  give  gold,  and,  perhaps,  for 
a  time,  upon  easy  terms.     At  first  Uiey  are  all 
civility :  for  men  of  this  class  delight  to  see  a  new 
face  in  their  dismal  dens — ^it  promises  a  rich  har- 
vest; and  all  their  wits  are  set  to  work  to  consum- 
mate the  ruin  of  the  wretch  who  is  under  the  ne- 
cessity of  soliciting  their  aid.    The  first  move  is 
to  put  the  borrower  off  hb  guard,  which  is  often 
accomplished  by  an  appearance  of  generosity. 
The  poor  wight  goes  to  solicit  aid  in  some  of  his 
difficulties.    He  enters  the  presence  of  the  money- 
lender with  the  diffident  air  of  a  man  who  hardly 
knows  how  to  express  his  errand.     The  money- 
lender has  difficulty  in  hiding  his  satisfaction.  He 
beholds  a  man  who  has  long  been  above  him  in 
society  and  commercial  standing,  about  to  be 
brought  down.    He  has  in  view  the  advantages 
which  wiU  accrue  to  himself  by  the  contemplated 
transactions ;  as  he  is  aware  that  he  may  wring 


vast  sums  from  him  in  the  shape  of  usury  before 
his  means  be  thoroughly  wasted.  He  receives  him, 
therefore,  with  a  semblance  of  humility.  When 
the  wishes  of  the  other  are  made  known  he  ex- 
presses his  joy  at  having  it  in  his  power  to  oblige 
his  neighbour  at  very  moderate  interest.  The  ne- 
gotiations are  soon  at  an  end,  without  any  chaf- 
fering on  the  part  of  the  money-lender.  The  bor- 
rower takes  his  departure,  no  longer  depressed  by 
the  thoughts  of  having  to  deviate  from  the  honour- 
able and  legitimate  system  of  mercantile  business, 
and  ask  a  favour  of  a  person  whom  he  had  for- 
merly despised.  All  has  now,  however,  passed 
over  without  his  vanity  having  been  in  any  way 
hurt,  or  his  dignity  compromised.  He  comes, 
however,  again  and  again,  until  he  is  fairly  with- 
in the  power  of  the  money-lender,  who  will  then 
throw  aside  his  mask  and  show  himself  to  his 
wretched  victim  in  his  true  colours.  Thus  many 
are  lured  to  their  destruction. 

The  reader  will  not  understand  these  remarks, 
however  true,  to  convey  insinuations  against 
any  particular  person.  There  are  many  men  of 
respectability  who  are  engaged  both  in  the  basi- 
ness  of  money-lenders  and  as  tavern-keepers ;  bnt 
that  makes  it  the  greater  pity  that  a  man  of  re- 
spectability should  embark  in  a  branch  of  business 
which  entails  so  much  misery  upon  hb  brethren, 
and  tends  to  harden  the  heart  and  crush  all  the 
fine  feelings  and  sympathies  which  bind  man  to 
man  in  one  common  brotherhood.  Man,  as  formed 
by  his  Maker,  has  a  heart  capable  of  the  utmost 
tenderness ;  which  clings  towards  the  hearts  of 
those  around,  with  a  constancy  of  affection  that 
nothing  but  a  thirst  for  gold  can  deaden  or  oblite- 
rate. .  It  is  a  melancholy  spectacle  to  witness  the 
fair  and  goodly  tabernacle  of  the  human  heart, 
which  ought  to  overflow  with  love  and  charity,  so 
degraded,  as,  for  the  gratification  of  an  avaricions 
passion,  to  cast  aU  that  ennobles  humanity  behind, 
and  be<x)me  the  receptacle  of  all  that  is  mean  and 
cruel,  until  the  last  twinge  of  conscience  has 
ceased  to  disturb,  and  the  heart  of  the  man  of 
blood  and  cruelty  is  left  to  the  control  of  the 
evil  passions  raging  within  it.  Of  all  classes  of 
men,  the  most  unfeeling  are  the  money-lenders.  It 
takes  some  time,  however,  to  acquire  the  deter- 
mined stoniness  of  heart  of  a  money-lender ;  there 
are  deeply-rooted  tendrils  of  feeling  around  the 
heart  of  even  a  money-lender,  whi<^  it  requires 
long  practice  in  the  calling  to  tear  up,  and  which 
in  ihe  process  sting  deeply,  with  the  secret  con- 
sciousness of  innate  meanness. 

The  fortunes  acquired  by  the  tavern-keepers 
are  often  made  in  a  most  disgusting .  manner ; 
their  houses  are  nests  of  thieves  and  harlots: 
the  most  obscene  and  noisy  revels  are  heard 
resounding  from  them  by  day  and  night;  yet 
frequently,  immense  fortunes  grow  up  to  the 
keepers  of  these  hot-beds  of  vioe  and  dissipation. 
**  The  Globe  "  however,  to  the  credit  of  the  land- 
lord be  it  mentioned,  did  not  present  any  of  tlie 
disgusting  appearances  of  many  of  the  others.  The 
solemn  landlord  had,  with  no  little  cunning,  suc- 
ceeded in  gaining  the  reputation  of  selling  chea{)er 
than  any  house  in  town  ;  and  was  in  consequence 


AUSTRALIAN  SKETCHES. 


101 


posseesed  of  a  capital  and  lucrativB  family  oon- 
oexion.  It  was  his  interest  to  foster  this  trade ; 
djxd  with  this  view  he  excluded  all  debauchery ; 
and  hiB  house  had  a  quiet,  neat,  and  cleanly  ap- 
peaianoe,  which  contrasted  favourably  with  the 
slorenly  look  which  many  of  the  tarems  present. 
The  hofue  had  a  look  nearly  as  retired  as  a  pri- 
▼ste  dwelUog-house.  It  was  a  small  house,  with 
the  door  in  the  comer,  and  had  an  inner-door  to 
the  bsr,  which  was  covered  with  green-doth,  and 
from  which  there  would  every  minute  or  two  glide 
a  servant  girl  with  one  or  more  bottles  in  her  hand. 
In  this  bar  stood  the  landlord,  intent  upon  the  only 
thing  he  ever  thought  about — amassing  money. 
He  seldom  left  the  duty  of  serving  at  the  bar  to 
aoy  other  person,  for  he  was  suspicious  of  nearly 
ereryone.  A  saying  which  he  frequently  repeated, 
K18,  *Hhat  servants  had  a  private  purse,"  and 
^that  they  took  a  shilling  for  self,  and  one  to  the 
master*  Whan,  however,  business  called  him  im- 
peratively abroad,  he  dressed  himself  in  a  new  suit 
of  black  clothes,  and  sported  a  magnificent  cane. 
Thus  attired,  he  walked  along,  neither  looking  to 
the  light  nor  to  the  left :  for  he  assumed  an  ap- 
peaoBoe  of  indifference  to  all.  He  was  not  thus 
allowed  to  pass,  for  many  had  an  object  in  at- 
tempttog  to  gain  the  favour  of  the  wealthy  pub- 
lieao ;  and  he  could  hardly  walk  ten  yards  with- 


out being  addressed  by  some  acquaintance.  The 
great  publican  would  stop  ;  and  if  it  was  an  indi- 
vldual  whom  he  had  some  object  to  gain  in  treat- 
ing with  civility,  no  one  knew  better  how  to  be 
complaisant:  but  if  it  was  an  Inferior,  or  one 
whom  he  had  no  interest  in  being  civil  to,  he  was 
suddenly  seized  with  an  absence  of  mind  that 
put  it  out  of  his  power  to  hear  or  answer  any 
question,  and  which  completely  baffled  the  attempt 
of  the  other  to  ingratiate  himself  with  him. 

He  was  never  known  to  smile  but  once,  and 
thb  was  at  a  public  meeting.  This  astonished  one 
or  two  who  knew  him  not  a  little.  The  meeting 
was  called  for  the  purpose  of  selecting  from  the 
inhabitants  persons  qualified  for  holding  some 
situations  of  honou r  and  responsibility.  A  scheming 
solicitor,  who  possessed  an  ambition  to  be  a  public 
speaker,  and  had  a  number  of  set  phrases  and  sen- 
tences which  he  dished-up  on  every  occasion  into 
a  speech,  rose  upon  the  occasion  mentioned,  and 
after  a  most  flattering  panegyric,  proposed  the 
publican.  It  was  at  this  time  that  a  smile  was 
observed  to  flit  across  the  lips  of  that  person ;  and 
the  public,  who  make  pretty  shrewd  guesses  upon 
what  falls  under  their  notice,  concluded  that  the 
publican  smiled  at  the  assurance  of  another  victim* 
Who  flatters  for  nothing? 


REMINISCENCES  OF  MRS.  OPIE.    No.  I. 

AN  EVENING  PARTY  AT  THE  DOWAGER  COUNTESS  OF  C 'S,  IN  THE 

YEAR  1814. 


h  1814)  the  Emperor  of  Russia,  the  King 
of  Pnu^  and  other  royal  and  distinguished 
foraguers,  were,  as  every  one  knows,  in  London. 
Among  the  latter  was  Field-marshal  Blucher :  and 

1  waa  invited  by  Lady  C ^  who  was  celebrated 

for  givmg  agreeable  parties,  to  meet  Blucher  at 
her  hooae,  he  having  promised  to  visit  her  after  the 
Opcia  was  over. 

It  was  that  memorable  Opera  night  when  the 
Prinee  Regent  and  the  sovereigns  appeared  together 
^  the  Opera-house,  and  when  the  poor  Princess 
of  Wales  was  there  also. 

I  was  at  Lady  C ^*s  before  the  company  from 

the  naymarket  was  expected,  but  some  of  them 
soon  arrived,  having  left  the  crowded  scene  before 
the  entertainments  closed ;  and  they  brought  what 
*u  deemed  surprbing  intelligence,  namely,  that 
the  Princess  of  Wales  was  at  the  Opera,  seated 
ffpooite  to  the  Royal  box,  and  that  the  Prince 
W  bowed  to  the  Princess :  but  the  next  party 
tbt  arrived,  declared  that  be  had  bowed  to  the  pit: 
uxl  on  hearing  these  contradictory  statements,  our 
hostess  put  this  question  to  each  new  comer,  *'Did 
the  Prince  bow  to  the  Princess,  or  the  pit  ? "  And 
there  were  as  many  who  declared  that  he  bowed 
to  the  pit,  as  that  he  bowed  to  the  Princess^ — a 
•triking  proof  how  difficult  it  is  to  ascertain  tlie 
truth  of  any  fact,  though,  as  in  this  case,  the  fact 
in  dispute  was  witnessed  by  hundreds.  But 
whichever  waa  the  true  account,  the  discussion 


was  well-timed,  as  it  gave  rise  to  remarks  which 
agreeably  beguiled  the  passing  hour,  and  made 
some  of  us  forget  for  what  purpose  we  were 
assembled.  It  also  occasioned  an  unusual  exer- 
tion of  mind,  and  excited  unwonted  interest  in  the 
conversation. 

The  circumstance  itself  was  not  of  much  mo- 
ment, because  it  was  not  likely  to  have  any  bene- 
ficial results  to  the  parties  relative  to  whom  the 
dispute  arose  ;  but  it  gained  importance  from  the 
consideration,  that  though  not  of  consequence 
enough  to  be  mentioned  in  the  pages  of  History, 
it  would  certainly  be  alluded  to  in  those  of  Bio- 
graphy, and  in  the  'memoirs  of  the  day :  and 
among  so  many  conflicting  testimonies,  how  was 
the  biographer  to  know  which  was  the  accurate 
representation?  One  of  the  company  suggested 
that  he  must  take  that  side  of  the  question  on 
which  the  greatest  number  of  persons  agreed; 
another  that  he  must  write  by  the  evidence  of 
those  whom  he  thought  most  worthy  of  credit. 
However,  in  one  point,  every  one  was  of  the  same 
opinion,  namely,  tliat  the  writers  of  History  and 
Biography  were  much  to  be  pitied  ;  and  that  poor 
Sir  Walter  Raleigh  made  a  wise  resolve  in  deter- 
mining to  bum  the  history  he  was  writing,  when, 
of  a  circumstance  which  he  saw  happen  under  the 
window  of  his  prison  in  the  Tower,  he  heard  the 
next  day  several  different  and  even  contradictory 
accounts^  and  not  one  of  th«m  the  true  one. 


102 


AN  EVENING  PARTY  AT  THE  DOWAGER  COUNTESS  OF  C- 


Never  was  the  usual  unvaried  insipidity  of  a 
London  Soir^  more  completely  annihilated,  than 
it  was  for  a  while  on  this  occasion ;  but  the  subject 
was  at  last  exhausted :  we  remembered  we  were 
expecting  excitement  of  a  di£Perent  nature,  and  we 
began  to  listen  for  shouts  in  the  street ;  but  alas ! 
in  vain.  The  hour  was  late,  the  ballet  must  have 
been  long  over,  yet  no  Blucher  camel  and  our 
small  party  seemed  about  to  grow  smaller,  when 
we  heard  the  trampling  of  feet  in  the  next  room, 
accompanied  by  other  noises ;  and  then  the  lady  of 
the  house.  Lady  C  L  ■,  and  that  amiable 
and  agreeable  Queen  of  the  Blue  Stockings,  the 

late  Lydia  W ^  appeared  dressed  as  old  women, 

pretending  to  dig  with  the  sticks  they  held  in  their 
hands,  and  seeming  to  search  for  something  buried 
and  precious.  I  was  so  stupid  that  I  could  not 
understand  what  they  were  doing :  but  I  saw  they 
were  acting  a  charade ;  and  others,  wiser  than  I 
was,  said  it  is  a  French  charade,  and  called  out 
•*The  word  is  Or— Gold;"  and  so  it  was.  They 
then  disappeared,  but  returned  stamping  violently, 
clenching  their  fists  and  looking  daggers  at  each 
other,  and  with  one  accord  we  aU  cried  out  the 
word  is  **  jRoffe."  Again  they  left  us,  and  then 
came  back  expressing  great  alarm,  and  looking 
upwards  as  if  watching  the  skies,  and  starting  as 
if  they  heard  loud  noises,  then  hiding  their  eyes, 
as  if  to  shut  out  fearful  sights.  Loud  applause 
now  rewarded  the  performers,  as  they  showed  by 
their  gestures  that  their  charade  was  ended,  and 
the  word  we  knew  wus  "  Orage;"  and  while  we 
felt  grateful  for  this  good-natured  attempt  to 
beguile  the  tedioushess  of  waiting,  it  woul(}  have 
been  invidious  to  remember  that  in  Orage  there 
was  only  one  r. 

But  we  relapsed  again  into  that  disagreeable 
silence  which  is  so  often  consequent  on  the  expec- 
tation of  something  more  interesting  than  what  is 
actually  before  us;  and  again  we  began  to  listen. 
Nor  did  we  now  listen  in  vain ;  for  we  certainly 
heard  shouts  at  a  little  distance,  which  rapidly 
drew  near,  and  at  length  were  audible  in  the  hall, 
and  on  the  stairs.  In  a  moment  we  were  on  our 
feet,  the  lady  of  the  house  advanced  to  meet  her 
distinguished  guest,  the  door  was  thrown  open,  and 
with  a  firm  and  martial  step,  in  came,  drest  in  a 
military  great-coat,  a  military  cocked-hat  in  her 

uplifted  hand,  the  Lady  C L !    It  was  a 

disappointment ;  but  we  could  not  help  laughing, 
nor  could  we  fail  to  applaud  the  kind  deception, 
intended  to  amuse  away  the  feeling  of  impatient 
waiting.  But  in  another  minute  more  we  heard, 
not  the  sound  of  shouting,  but  that  of  carriage 
wheels,  and  the  prancing  of  horses*  feet. 

The  door  was  again  thrown  open,  and  Mrs. 

•W P— e,  (now  Countess  of  M y)  who 

was  to  bring  the  Field-marshal,  entered  the  room ; 
but  she  came  unaccompanied  by  Blucher,  for  he 
was  so  unwell,  owing  to  the  heat  of  the  Opera- 
house,  and  the  pressure  of  the  crowd  which  sur- 
rounded him  at  the  door,  that  he  was  obliged  to  go 
home  to  bed. 

**  But  instead  of  the  Marshal,"  said  Mrs.  W 

P— €,  graoefuUy  presenting  a  gentleman  by  her 
side,  "  allow  me  to  introduce  to  your  ladyship  the 


Prince  of  Saxe  Coburg,  who  arrived  only  this 
morning  in  London ;"  and  instead  of  a  whiskered, 
sallow,  ill-looking  old  soldier,  we  saw  a  handsome, 
blooming,  graceful  young  Prince ;  whom  our  de< 
lighted  hostess  soon  conducted  through  her  elegaDt 
suite  of  apartments. 

^  It  must  be  acknowledged,"  observed  one  kdy, 

"  that  Mrs.  W—  P e  has  brought  us  ample 

compensation  for  our  disappointment." — ^''Ohl 
that  beautiful  Prince!"  said  another,  laying  her 
hand  on  her  hearty  ^^  I  wish  I  had  gone  away  be- 
fore he  came!" 

At  this  moment  the  late  Lord  H ^k  entered, 

just  returned  from  attending  the  Prtnceta  Chariot 
of  Wales  to  some  private  exhibition.  He  little 
thought  when  he  took  leave  of  the  Princess,  that 
he  was  going  to  see  her  future  husband  ;  and 
little  did  she  think,  when  she  retired  to  rest, 
that  she  had  seen  the  most  important  day  which 
had  ever  dawned  on  her  young  life.  Little  could 
she  suspect,  that  on  that  day  had  arrived  in  the 
metropolis  of  her  country,  the  favoured  man  who 
was  to  be  the  guiding  star  of  her  destiny. 

Important  indeed  to  our  lamented  Princess  was 
the  arrival  of  Prince  Leopold  of  Saxe  Coburg  in 
England.  But  as  he  could  never  be  to  me  more 
than  ^^a  bright  particular  star,"  to  gaze  on  at  a 
distance,  I  was  impatient  to  depart  after  I  had 
looked  at  him  and  admired  him  again ;  and  while 
I  waited  for  his  return  to  the  front  room,  I  was 

amused  by  seeing  Lady  C L         accost  Lord 

H ^k,  saying  in  her  most  winning  manner,  as  she 

hung  upon  his  arm,  "  Dear  Lord  H ^k,  do  give 

me  five  shillings ;  for  I  have  no  money  in  my 
pocket,  and  I  want  some." — "  What !  want  five 

shillings  now.  Lady  C ^,"  he  replied  ;  "  what 

for  V  "  Only  to  pay  the  servants  here  for  shout- 
ing. Oh !  they  shouted  so  well ! "— "  Shouted ! 
what  should  they  shout  for?"  "Oh!  I  know: 
but  will  you  be  so  good  as  to  give  me  the  money  V 
smoothing  down  his  gold  epaulette  as  she  spoke. 
"To  be  sure,"  said  the  good-natured  nobleman, 
putting  five  shillings  in  her  hand.  Then  with  her 
usual  light  and  graceful  step,  she  glided  out  of  the 
room,  and  hastened  to  distribute  her  bounty. 

It  was  a  real  entertainment  to  me  to  see  the 
comic,  yet  half-ashamed  expression  of  Lord  H — ^k's 
countenance  when  she  turned  away.  He  looked  as 
if  he  did  not  like  any  one  should  have  seen  how 
easily  he  parted  with  his  money  for  a  purpose  so 
ridiculous  as  that  of  rewarding  the  servants  of  Lady 

C for  shouting  for  he  could  not  tell  what ;  but 

at  length  he  gave  way  to  hearty  laughter,  in  which 
I  could  not  help  joining. 

The  load-star  of  the  evening  then  shone  on  us 

again.  Lord  H ^k  was  introduced  in  form,  and  I 

returned  home,  thankfiil  for  the  various  pleasures 
of  the  day. 

I  had  dined  in  company  with  Lord  Erskine,  and 
the  lamented  Dr.  Brown  of  Edinbui^gh,  the  Pro- 
fessor of  Moral  Philosophy,  at  the  house  of  my 
dear  and  highly-valued  friend  J.  G.  Lemaistre, 
(nowy  alas !  no  more ;)  and  I  had  finished  the  even- 
ing in  a  party  more  than  usually  marked  by  in- 
teresting incidents  and  conversation.  Yet  I  fear 
I  have  not  said  much  in  favour  of  those  gay  and 


AN  EVENING  PARTY  AT  THE  DOWAGER  COUNTESS  OF 


103 


bnsj  scenes  in  which  I  once  moved,  by  confessing 
myself  so  highly  gratified,  by  what  I  have  describ- 
ed as  the  means  of  my  gratification ;  still  I  cannot 
retract  my  words :  pleased  and  gratefol  I  was.  It 
might  be,  perhaps,  a  weakness  in  me  to  feel  so ;  bnt 
I  cannot  be  so  disingennous  as  not  to  own  it  to  its 
full  extent.    But  one  thing  perplexed  me  in  its 

lesolts.    I  thought  Mrs.  W P— <  called  the 

Prince,  Joan, not  Leopold  of  Saxe  Coborg:  therefore, 
thoagh  I  thought  he  must  be  the  object  of  the  Prin- 
cess Charlotte's  choice,  when  I  heard  she  was 
attached  to  one  of  the  German  Princes,  I  could  not 
be  sore  he  was  the  man,  as  I  never  saw  him  again ; 
and  the  prints  of  him,  represented  him  as  far  less 
yoang  and  handsome  than  he  appeared  in  my  eyes. 
It  was  long  before  I  had  an  opportunity  of  clear- 
ing up  this  doubt.    But  it  came  at  last. 

Eventful,  and  interesting  indeed  were  the  five 
years  that  jfollowed  the  evening  in  question  in  the 
life  of  Prince  Leopold  of  Saxe  Coburg.  He  had  been 
a  hosband,  he  hoped  to  have  been  a  father,  and  he 
^vu  become  a  childless  widower.  He  had  there- 
foie  experienced  a  blight  not  only  of  his  affections, 
kt  to  his  very  natural  ambition.  But  he  mixed 
with  the  world  as  usual;  and  at  last  my  strong 
wish  to  see  him,  and  convince  myself  that  he  was 
tiie  German  Prince  whom  I  saw  in  1814^  was  like- 
ly to  be  gratified ;  for  the  same  lady  who  had  asked 
me  to  meet  Blucher,  invited  me  in  1820  to  a  party, 
at  which  she  expected  the  Duke  of  Gloucester,  and 
Prince  Leopold.  But  the  Duke  was  gone,  and  few 
of  the  gaests  remained,  when  Prince  Leopold  came ; 
and  I  instantly  recognised  in  the  husband  of  our  lost 
Princess,  the  young  stranger  of  1814.  But  he  was 
changed  in  person.  Then  his  complexion  l^A  much 


of  the  bloom  of  youth,  and  he  seemed  inclined  to 
be  corpulent ;  but  if  he  had  lost  some  of  his  youth- 
ful beauty,  he  had  considerably  gained  in  interest 
and  expression.  In  1820  he  wore  no  order,  but 
that  of  the  Garter,  and  his  dress  was  black.  What 
an  excellent  model,  thought  I,  he  would  be  for  a 
picture  of  Hamlet ! 

Had  I  still  doubted  hb  personal  identity,  my 
doubts  would  soon  have  chimged  into  certainty : 
for  I  heard  him  say,  as  he  looked  around  tiie 
well-lighted  apartments,  ^^  This  is  the  first  house 
I  ever  visited  at  in  London !  I  came  hither  on  the 
very  first  evening  of  my  arrival.  Oh !  I  remem- 
ber this  room  well ! "  How  I  wished  to  have  been 
authorized  to  say,  **  And  I  saw  your  Royal  High- 
ness introduced,  and  never  have  seen  you  since, 
till  this  momenty  when  I  see  you  precisely  on  the 
same  spot.**  How  I  should  have  liked  to  read 
his  mind  and  heart  at  the  moment  when  he  re- 
cognised in  Lady  C— — *s  drawing-room,  the  scene 
of  his  first  appearance  in  London  society.  Could 
he  help  remembering  what  he  then  was,  and  what 
he  had  since  become  ?  But  still  more  should  I 
have  liked,  during  my  stay  at  Brussels  in  1835, 
to  have  had  an  opportunity  of  studying  the  expres* 
sion  of  his  face  since  his  still  greater  elevation, 
since  he  had  become  a  reigning  sovereign,  and  the 
husband  of  another  **  King's  daughter."  I  should 
like  to  have  seen  whether  his  countenance  was 
bright  with  domestic  happiness,  and  gratified  am- 
bition ;  or  whether  it  was  anxious,  and  care-worn ; 
proving  the  justice  of  the  words  put  into  the 
mouth  of  a  sovereign  of  former  days, 

**  Then  happy  low,  lie  down : 

Uneasy  lies  the  bead  that  wears  a  Crown." 


THE  WITHERED  FLOWER. 


Thit  brought  her  ftom  the  diy  vast. 

To  this  £m  forest  dell : 
Twmild  ease,  ihey  said,  her  pain,  to  tread 

The  paths  she  loved  bo  welL 
They  led  hsr  forth  by  hill  and  spring, 

Ajkd  down  the  flowery  den : 
They  deem'd  her  childhood's  haunts  would  bring 

Her  childhood  back  again. 

The  flower-bnds  glisten'd  in  the  grass, 

The  bird  song  in  the  tree : 
A  few  short  Bomaers  since,  alai  I 

She  song  as  blithe  as  he. 
0  tell  me  not,  in  sammer.timei 

Witlun  this  happy  dale, 
That  lady's  eye  ooald  long  be  dim. 

Her  cheek  ooald  long  be  pale  1 

Yet  momently  they  lost  their  light, 

Like  stars,  when  day 's  began, — 
Or  blaebdls  sweet,  whieh  efaiU  winds  blight. 

When  summer  days  axe  done. 
And,  hoar  by  boor,  life's  snn  sank  low— « 

A  smsel  sad  and  bleak^ 


For  death  crept  quietly  and  slow^ 
Like  twilight  o'er  her  cheek. 

'Twas  now  the  golden  antumn  time, 

The  old  age  of  the  day ; 
Each  flowery  cup  was  folded  up 

Beneath  ihe  parting  ray ; 
When,  as  the  Sabbath's  dying  light 

Stole  through  the  lattice  in. 
That  lady  closed  her  eyelids  bright, 
-  Upon  this  world  of  sin. 
Each  floweret  ope'd  its  silken  bell. 

When  merry  morning  shone; 
Bnt  noon  and  eyening  came — ^yet  still 

She  silently  slept  on. 

The  lilies  grow  beside  her  feet, 

The  violets  at  her  head ; 
An  angel  might  not  grieye  to  meet 

With  such  a  blessed  bed. 
They  brought  her  from  the  city  vast, 

To  this  dim  forest  dell : 
Here  first  it  sprung,  and  here,  at  last. 

The  withered  floweret  felL 


C.B.O. 


104 


THE  NEW  NOVELS.' 


The  reading  world— >or  the  far  greater  propor- 
tion of  it,  the  novel-reading  worlds  which  includes 
within  itself  most  of  the  lesser  or  sectional  reading 
circles — ^nerer  can  hare  found  itself  more  copiously 
supplied  than  in  the  present  season.  It  must  be  the 
fault  of  stingy  Librarians  if  three  fresh  volumes 
are  not  furnished  to  voracious  consumers  every 
three  days.  As  we  believe  ^  the  reading  world  " 
derives  not  only  its  entertainment,  but,  though 
indirectly,  as  much  of  its  moral  intelligence  and 
instruction  from  fictions  and  imaginative  writings 
as  from  didactic  essays  and  moral  discourses,  we 
rejoice  to  find  in  this  important  department  of 
literature  steady  improvement.  Not  that  we 
have  more  works  of  power  and  genius  than  distin- 
guished the  past  brilliant  periods  of  Scott  and  Edge- 
worth,  Crod  win,  Bumey,Lady  Moigan,  and  Banim ; 
but  that  the  entire  class  of  fiction  writers  is  raised, 
and  that  the  inanities  of  the  Minerva  Press  could 
no  longer  be  tolerated.  Even  the  most  common- 
place novel  of  the  present  day  displays  some  know- 
ledge of  real  life,  and  a  clearer  apprehension  of  the 
grand  secret  of  relying  upon  truth  and  nature,  if 
the  object  be  to  enlist  the  sympathies  and  to  influ- 
ence the  affections  and  the  opinions  of  beings  akin 
to  those  described  or  personated  by  the  story-teller. 
.  To  come  to  the  ample  instalment  of  literary  en- 
tertainment on  our  table :  we  have,  first.  The  Belle 
of  the  Family f  from  the  pen  of  a  lady  to  whom  we 
owe  the  pleasing  tale  of  ThelAule  Wife.  In  point 
of  execution  this  story  is  very  far  from  faultless. 
It  displays  a  world  of  minor  blunders,  which,  we 
daresay,  may  justly  be  laid  upon  that  ubiquitous 
scapegoat,  the  printer's  devil ;  or,  at  all  events, 
fairly  divided  with  him.  Seriously  speaking,  the 
evident  and  gross  blunders  of  some  of  the  London 
Bovel-printers,  who  get  up  their,  works  in  great 
haste,  are  an  injustice  to  readers,  and  must  be  a 
sore  affliction  to  sensitive  authors,  who  surely  can- 
not be  chaigeable  with  one-half  the  sheer  nonsense 
and  bad  grammar  laid  to  their  account  in  the  ill-com- 
posed (typically  speakmg)  and  ill-corrected  pages 
of  many  novels.  This  rebuke  may  be  somewhat 
out  of  place  ;  but  is  of  a  fault  that  has  reached 
a  height  for  which  there  is  no  excuse,  and  one 
which  ought  to  be  amended. 

As  it  is  not  in  our  power  to  give  a  detailed  ab- 
stract of  one-half  of  the  novels  on  our  list,  we  select 
what  we  consider — if  not  the  most  perfect — ^the 
most  interesting  of  the  group-^The  Belle  of  the 
Family.  Yet  in  it,  the  incidents  and  characters  are 
of  the  most  common  sort ;  and  the  attention  of  the 
reader  concentrated  upon  the  strife  of  passions  in 


•  I,  The  Belle  of  the  FamilT;  and  Hanr  Monk.  By  the 
Aathor  of  «  The  Little  Wife," «'  Younip  Pnnui  Donna,"  &c 
&c.    Three  volones. 

IL  The  Gmve-Diffger.  By  the  Aathor  of  "  The  Seottuh 
Hetrew."    Three  volumes. 

IIL  New  Sketch  of  Evenr-d»y  Life:  a  Diaiy ;  with  Strife 
and  Peace ;  a  Tale.  By  Fredrika  Bremer.  TianaUted  by 
Un.  Howitt    Two  voluroea. 

IV.  Men  and  Women  ;  or.  Manorial  Riirhts.  By  the  Au- 
thor of  "  Swan  Hopley.''    Thwe  volumes.  ^ 


the  breast  of  one  young  girl,  the  victim  of  a  bad 
education ;  of  the  fedse  and  worldly  notions  of  her 
relatives,  and  of  the  conventionalities  of  society ;  a 
woman  who,  with  her  heart  devoted  to  her  first  love, 
is  exhibited  bound  on  the  rack  of  an  ill-assorted 
marriage.  The  opening  of  the  Tale  shows  us 
£mma  Vassall  on  the  eve  of  her  introduction  into 
society,  under  the  auspices  of  Mrs.  Amyott,  a  gay 
and  kind-hearted  married  sister.  Emma  was  the 
youngest  of  the  four  daughters  of  General  Vassal], 
whose  death,  by  suicide,  had  consigned  his  bowed- 
down,  sorrowing  widow,  to  the  strictest  privacy. 
Her  sister,  Mrs.  Nugent,  a  fashionable  match-maker, 
had  brought  out  her  daughters ;  and  long  before 
this  time  clutched  for  the  eldest,  the  formal  and 
worldly  Elizabeth,  a  very  rich  London  banker.  He 
was  a  young  old  man,  and  his  wife  an  old  youDg 
woman.  Fanny,  the  second  daughter,  a  happy 
and  light-hearted  creature,  captivated  the  gay  son 
of  a  needy  peer  ;  and  thus  married  highly,  thougli 
for  love.  Of  the  two  sons  of  General  YassaU, 
Lawrence,  the  elder,  was  now  settled  at  a  snug 
Rectory  in  Wiltshire  ;  and  Tom,  the  scape-graco 
of  the  family,  was  in  the  Navy,  and  sometimes  in 
the  Fleet.  The  third  daughter  had,  from  an  acci- 
dent in  childhood,  been  rendered  a  confirmed  in- 
valid though  a  girl  of  charming  character.  Much 
of  the  interest  and  affection  of  the  scattered  houst- 
hold  therefore  devolved  upon  Emma,  the  youngest, 
and  the  beauty  and  pet  of  the  famUy ;  loved  ia 
spite  of  her  many  faults,  while  they  were  only 
manifested  in  the  caprices  and  waywardness  of  a 
spoiled  child,  from  the  entertainment  which  tliey 
afforded,  to  the  thoughtless  spectators  of  her  petty 
passions.  Thus,  a  naturally  warm-hearted,  it 
warm-tempered  child,  grew  up  a  proud,  impatient, 
and  self-willed  girl :  though  witli  many  redeeming' 
qualities,  some  of  which  were  either  intimately 
allied  to  her  indomitable  pride,  or  had  theu*  root 
in  that  imperfection : — 

Emma  was  very  yonng  when  her  father  so  snddenly 
and  fearfully  died  !  She  was  the  lovely  last  bom— the 
last  child  of  a  husband  adored  by  his  bereaved  wife.  .  . 
All  seemed  to  join  with  the  poor  mother  in  assisting  in 
this  task  of  mining  the  little  Emma— brothers,  si8t6r>, 
servants,  all  succumbed  at  once,  to  every  want  and  wi&h 
of  the  imperious  little  beauty. 

When  the  time  came  for  governesses  and  masters 
these  functionariea  found  it  more  prudent,  for  tJf 
sake  of  quiet,  to  wink  at  the  faults  of  their  puj  il 
than  to  engage  in  the  troublesome  task  of  patiently 
correcting  them.  But  Emma  was  now  seventeen ; 
and  both  her  married  sisters  had  offered  to  become 
her  chaperone.  To  the  sensible  and  worldly  Mr$. 
Chetwood,  Emma  naturally  preferred  her  sister 
Fann}"  Amyott,  a  creature  full  of  mirth  and 
fascination,  who,  though  she  had  married  so  im- 
prudently, had  yet,  somehow,  a  very  pretty  small 
house  in  a  good  quarter  of  London  ;  her  husband 
in  Parliament ;  and  "her  own  horses,"  from  the 
moment  that  the  season  brought  her  to  town,  until 
she  left  it  for  her  father-in-law's  country  seat. 
Mrs.  Chetwood  was  the  only  (lersun  who  had  ever 


THE  BELLE  OF  THE  FAMILY. 


105 


Tcntnred  to  find  fault  with  the  headstrong,  unruly 
girl,  Trho  now  protested  against  being  domesticated 
with  her  lecturing  eldest  sister,  and  declared  for 
Fanny's  guidance  and  companionship,  saying — 

''I  had  enough  of  the  school-room,  and  prefer  enjoying 
myself  whilst  it  is  in  my  power.  I  shall  go  to  Fanny 
this  year." 

**And  Imbibe  snch  a  lore  of  dissipation,  that  eyery- 
tliing  after  her  house,  will  seem  stale,  flat,  and  unprofit- 
able." 

'^  After  her  house  I  shall  come  to  you^  if  yon  like," 
retorted  Emma,  with  a  sly  smile,  and  a  sparkle  in  her 
bright,  dark  eyes,  which  told  of  the  mischioTous  spirit 
within ;  **  but  my  first  season  must  be  with  Fanny.  I  like 
Diaries  Amyott,  too,  and  I  like  dancing,  and  I  shall  dance 
to  my  heart's  content :  you  know  you  never  hare  balls; 
ud  I  hale  great  dinners,  and—" 

Emma's  disposition  was  affectionate  and  sensitiTe,  but 
ill  regulated,  and  impetuous  as  any  spoilt  child's  could 
be.  A  word  of  affection  from  her  mother,  whom  she 
worshipped,  would  hare  ruled  her  in  her  most  intem- 
perate moment,  provided  the  cold,  stem  eye  of  Mrs. 
Cbetwood  were  not  watching  her  at  the  time ;  but  in 
in  that  case,  her  temper  found  relief  in  a  volley  of  words : 
nothing  put  her  into  such  a  passion  as  one  of  Eliza- 
beth's calm  looks,  and  measured  speeches. 

Often  and  often  was  Emma  dismissed  the  drawing- 
rwim,  for  her  grand  fault,  her  want  of  respect  towards 
her  eUers;  and  then,  in  the  course  of  «  few  minutes, 
Heleo  would  slip  out  of  the  room  after  her,  and  soothe 
the  aptated  spirit,  and  bring  her  round  again.  No 
wonder  the  child  was  spoilt,  and  no  wonder  the  girl  was 
DJinily. 

**  At  all  events,  my  dear  mother,"  said  Mrs.  Chetwood, 
when  she  took  her  leave,  after  staying  a  few  days  at  the 
High-Down  House,  as  was  her  annual  custom,  "  never 
fear  for  Emma;  as  long  as  I  am  in  town,  I  shall  keep  a 
wttehfnl  eye  over  her  to  see  if—" 

*^  To  see  if  yon  can't  meddle,  and  make  mountains  out 
of  my  molehills,"  interrupted  Emma  herself,  who  had 
entered  unobserved.  **  Thank  yon,  Elizabeth, but  we  shall 
not  beta  your  Mf/" 

Hus  was  a  sharp  touch.  Emma  had  little  idea  how 
mneh  of  bitterness  was  contained  in  that  conventional 
phrase,  tlie  meaning  of  which  she  did  not  rightly  know, 
and  the  sound  of  which  she  had  caught,  like  a  parrot, 
fVom  her  sister  Fanny.  Mrs.  Chetwood,  on  the  contrary, 
felt  stung  by  its  application,  and  incensed  at  the  imper- 
tioeaoe  whidi  prompted  it. 

Had  Fanny  Amyott  been  in  the  room  the  case  would 
have  been  different:  her  uncontrollable  bursts  of  laughter 
at  speeches  of  the  kind,  gave  them  a  tacit  approval,  and 
the  hasty  wannth  of  the  spoilt  child's  temper,  was  by 
BO  Bieaas  improved  thereby. 

Under  the  exterior  of  hardihood  and  defiance,  the 
Toung  Emma  concealed  an  irritable  sensitiyeness, 
the  growth  of  pride  and  wounded  sensibility.  The 
fate  of  her  father,  which  the  rest  of  the  family  had 
ceased  to  feel,  she  bitterly  felt^  and  as  a  stigma  ; 
^d  agaiu'— 

There  was  another  torturing  subject  often  discussed 
is  her  presence,  under  which  her  proud  and  reckless 
spirit  writhed,  and  that  was  their  poverty  I  Poverty 
v»  the  nightmare  of  her  brigfit  dreams  of  the  fhture. . . 

"  Oh,  Helen,  if  we  were  but  rich  I" 

"  Bnt  we  have  an  ample  sufiiciency,  Emma." 

''Ah,  but  not  wealth  I  Oh,  for  riches,  Helen  !  Had  I 
«}j  riches,  how  differently,  how  scomftilly  I  should  look 
upon  the  world." 

'^  For  shame,  Emma  !  if  these  are  your  ideas,  marry  a 
aaa  like  Mr.  Chetwood !" 

An  expression  of  contempt  burst  firom  the  proud  lip, 
ud  a  curl  of  disgust  lingered  there. 

In  the  fashionable  circles  into  which  she  was 
introdnoed,  Emma  had  a  distinguished  success. 
The  nonchalance  of  her  manners  in  society,  the 
fruit  of  her  natural  haughtiness,  possessed  a  poig- 


nant charm  in  a  poor  and  obscure  h^uty.  On  her 
arrival  in  London — ^whither,  as  she  perfectly  well 
understood,  she  had  come  to  be  seen  and  admired, 
and  to  make  an  eligible,  that  is,  a  rich  and  high 
marriage— Emma  was  initiated  by  her  giddy  sister 
into  the  surrounding  eligibilities.  There  was  but 
one  warning : — 

Everhard  Aylmer,  you  know  him  by  name,  because  he 
is  admost  like  a  brother  to  Charles.  Come,  Emma !  now 
for  a  compact :  you  may  do  what  you  please  with  all  the 
rest,  but  you  must  not  break  my  first  favourite's  heart !" 

A  smile  of  derision  curled  Emma's  lip,  and  she  laughed 
slightly  but  contemptuously  at  the  caution 

Emma  Vassall  was  delighted  with  her  life  at  the 
Amyotts ;  it  was  all  sunshine  at  home  and  abroad,  from 
Charles  Amyott's  sunny  face  hurrying  in  and  out  of  the 
house,  down  to  the  very  lap-dog  which  frisked  about 
the  rooms.  No  one  had  so  many  opera  boxes  offered 
constantly  for  her  use  as  Fanny  Amyott,  now  that  she 
was  introducing  a  young  sister;  and  balls  without  number 
were  on  the  tapis,  where  the  beautifal  Miss  Vassall  was 
expected. 

Though  surrounded  by  several  eligiMe  adorers,  the 
haughty  Emma  had  many  secret  mortifications  to 
endure.  The  frequent  whisper  attending  the  ap- 
pearance of  the  belle  of  the  ball-room,  of  "  General 
Vassall's  daughter,  poor  thing!**  or,  "so  many 
daughters,  poor  things!  "  "  where  has  the  widow 
hid  herself?"  reached  her  quick  ear,  and  chilled 
her  proud,  warm  heart,  where  her  sisters  would 
have  been  either  unobservant  or  indifferent  to  such 
remarks.  Ontheeveningof  a  greatball, whereEmma 
danced  with  her  admirer,  Mr.  Gore,  a  ^'high-bomand 
delightful  man,  worth  five  or  six  thousand  a-year," 
as  Fanny  said,  she  was  taken  suddenly  ill,  in  con- 
sequence of  remarks  which  she  overheard  on  her 
father  8  shocking  death  and  her  mother's  poverty. 
But  Emma  bore  bravely  up  till  concealed  in  her 
sister's  carriage,  when  her  overwrought  feelings 
gave  way  in  a  passionate  burst,  though  she  would 
give  Fanny  no  explanation  of  its  cause.  Mrs. 
Amyott  could  only  impute  her  excessive  emotion 
to  Mr.  Grore  having  abruptly  "  proposed ; "  while 
Mr.  Amyott  fancied  it  more  likely  that  Emma  was 
ill  from  eating  too  much  ice.  Fumy  thought  this 
coarse  idea  ^  was  so  like  men ;"  and  Fanny  was 
certainly  more  discriminating  than  her  husband, 
though  not  exactly  right  in  this  instance:  for  Mr. 
Gore  loved,  but  had  not  yet "  proposed."  Mr.  Gore 
called  next  morning,  and  was  incidentally  informed 
that,  quite  recovered,  Emma  had  gone  out  to  walk,  in 
Hyde  Park,  with  the  nurse  and  child,  on  whichhe  ran 
down  stairs,  and  was  soon  on  his  way  to  Hyde 
Park.     Emma  came  in. 

«  Did  you  meet  Mr.  Gore  t"  was  Mrs.  Amyott's  first 
question  when  her  sister  returned.  ^  Yes,  we  met  him." 
"Did  he  join  yout"— "No,  Fanny."—" No  I  I  am 
quite  surprised— I—"—"  I  was  not,"  said  Emma  ;  "  I 
had  protection  enough  without  him."  "  Oh  yes  1  Nurse 
and  the  child  are  always  enough ;  but  1  declare  I — " 

Fanny  Amyott  was  not  daunted  by  her  sister's  abrupt 
replies,  but  they  put  her  out.  She  knew  she  had  some- 
thing to  say  very  particular,  but  Emma  was  so  unsatis- 
factory, she  never  could  get  on  with  her. 

"  He  sat  here  some  time,  Emma.  I  told  him  you  were 
in  the  Park ;  he  asked  after  you  in  the  first  place." 

"  Of  course  he  did  1"  excUumed  Emma,  suddenly  firing 
up  ; "  but  once  for  all,  Fanny,  I  do  wish  you  would  not 
throw  that  man  so  openly  at  my  head  !— one  really  can* 
not  move  but  there  comes  Mr.  Gore  !  Operas,  dinners, 
balls,  parties,  even  our  quiet  morning  waUu,  there  comes 
Mr.  Gore  !    It  is  really  quite  enough  to  make  me  hkte 


106 


THE  NEW  NOVELS, 


liim  I  and  if  you  sdoond  htm  in  snoh  a  sysiem  of  peneou- 
tion,  much  better  let  me  go  home  again !'' 

Mrs.  Amyott  was  quite  struck  dumb.  During  her 
flying  Tisits  to  the  High  Downs,  Emma*s  Tiolence  had 
been  her  greatest  source  of  amusement,  for  she  had  not 
then  been  the  object  of  it  herself. 

Brief  and  sudden,  and  slight  as  the  soene  had  been, 
it  taught  Mrs.  Amyott  one  lesson,  and  that  was,  that  if 
she  wished  to  exercise  her  talent  of  manoBUTring  in  the 
ease  of  her  sister,  that  must  be  done  $ub  r^a;  for  Emma's 
was  not  a  character,  or  a  temper,  to  submit  to  anything 
80  thoroughly  contemptible,  as  being  "  thrown  at  a  per- 
son's head,"  as  she  figuratiyely,  but  forcibly  expressed  it. 

Mrs.  Amyott  saw  in  a  moment  that  Emma  would  take 
the  reins  in  her  own  hands,  as  far  as  guidsnce  went. .  . 
Mrs.  Amyott's  anxiety  for  her  sister's  prospects  wounded 
the  young  girl's  pride.  It  was  too  undisguised.  Emma 
knew  nerfectly  that  her  career  in  the  gay  society  was 
not  to  be  without  **  an  end  and  aim."  She  had  learnt 
by  a  thousand  means,  before  she  left  her  happy,  peaoefhl 
home,  that  her  mother  expected  her  to  marry,  and  to 
marry  well.  Of  this  no  secret  had  oyer  been  made:  so 
her  perfect  knowledge  of  the  fact  was  no  fault  of  hers ; 
but  she  was  too  proud,  and  too  wilfiil  to  allow  it  to  in- 
fluence her  conduct;  and  though  she  carried  herself 
haughtily,  when  she  thus  by  accident  gained  a  glimpse 
of  Mrs.  Amyott's  riews,  she  was  ready  to  sink  into  the 
earth  with  mortification,  at  the  bare  idea  of  Mr.  Gore 
baling  also  penetrated  them,  and  went  to  her  room, 
isrestfallen  and  subdued. 

^  And  this  I**  she  exclaimed  as  she  threw  herself  into 
ft  ohalr,  "  this  is  the  shadow  of  what  I  haye  come  to 
town  to  endure  I  Oh,  riches  1"  she  added  bitterly; 
^  what  would  I  not  willingly  exchange  for  riches  !  for 
common  independence  1  for  the  simple  power  of  feeling 
that,  by  clinging  to  my  quiet  home,  I  did  not  draw  down 
expense  ontibose  who  support  me,  and  future  penury  on 
myself  I  but  I  am  poor !" 

Other  evils  were  in  store  for  little  Mrs.  Amyott. 
Her  sensible  sister,  Mrs.  Chetwood,  came  to  reproach 
her  with  having  conducted  afiairs  so  ill,  that  now 
Emma's  name  was  openly  coupled  with  that  of  a 
gentleman ;  and  that  she  was  also  talked  of  as  a 
flirt  or  a  coquette ;  which  Mrs.  Chetwood  said  she 
was. 

**  Lizzy  I  Lizzy  I**  exclaimed  Mrs.  Amyott,  ^you  are 
talking  of  your  own  sister  1  spare  her  such  hanh  aoeusa- 
tions ;  eonsider  her  beauty  and  attractiveness  in  every 

way  1 Names  are  not  coupled  with  hers 

— one  name  maybe;  but — " 

"  It  is  of  that  name  I  came  to  speak,  Fanny ;  if  Emma 
marries  that  man,  it  would  be  next  to  madness  I  I  think 
nothing  in  comparison  of  hearing  her  given  to  Sir  Wil- 
liam Orewe,  young  Forrester,  or  a  dozen  others.  I  say 
in  comparison ;  I  think  that  bad  enough — ^but  they  are 
flirtations  carried  on  before  you,  and  not — " 

^Now  hear  me,"  persisted  Mrs.  Amyott,  waxing  nearly 
as  angry  as  her  sister  was  warm. 

There  had  been  misunderstanding  between  the 
sisters.  Mr.  Crore  was  the  <me  name  meant  by  Mrs. 
Amyott,  and  Mr.  Gore  "  had  five  or  six  thousand 
a-year."  He  was  quite  unobjectionable ;  but  Mrs. 
Chetwood  still  had  herfears  that  Aylmer  was  meant» 
and  was  glad  that  she  had  alarmed  Mrs.  Amyott, 
and  put  her  on  her  guard.  At  the  Forresters,  Em- 
ma, as  Mrs.  Chetwood  told,  instead  of  dancing,  of 
which  amusement  she  was  so  fond,  was  seen  sitting 
on  the  staircase  with  Aylmer.  At  the  Caledonian 
BaU,  after  walking  through  a  quadrille  with  Sir 
William  Crewe,  another  of  her  eligible  admirers, 
Emma  spent  the  rest  of  the  evening  sitting  in  the 
tea-room  with  Everhard  Aylmer : — 

^  Anything  more  I"  asked  Mrs.  Amyott,  compressmg 
her  lips. 

<<  Jost  gne  nonfiict/'  was  Mrs.  Chetwood's  answer; 


"a  fact  wrung  from  my  vigilance,  and  painful  anxiety 
on  this  poor  girl's  account.  In  addition  to  all  these  op- 
portunities of  meeting;  and  you  will  agree  with  me  that 
nothing  is  so  favourable  to  a  love  match,  or  an  act  of 
folly,  as  opportunity — " 

**  I  fervently  pray  Emma  may  make  a  love  mat«h !'' 
ejaculated  Fanny,  warmly.  **  God  grant  her  a  fate  bo 
happy  1" 

**  In  addition  to  all  this,"  continued  Birs.  Chetwood, 
little  heeding  tiie  interruption,  **  unless  yon  wished  the 
two  green  geese  to  &U  in  love  with  each  other,  what  on 
earth  could  induce  yon  to  allow  your  Mr.  Eyerhard 
Aylmer  to  attend  the  singiDg  lessons  of  a  girl  with  so 
beautiful  a  voice  as  Emma  1" 

**  Attend  the  singing  lessons  1"  cried  Mrs.  Amyoti 
''Why,  really  Lizzy  I  forgive  me  for  the  mdeness  of  re- 
peating your  words,  but  Eyerhard  came  here  for  fiye  or 
six  times  in  the  morning,  simply  and  solely  fbr  me  to 
teach  him  to  net  !*' 

^  To  net— consummate  angler,  and  consummate  dope. 
Oh,  Fanny !  at  your  age — ^with  your  worldly-bonght 
experience — a  married  woman  of  fiye-and-twenty  to  be 
so  gulled  I  to  net  indeed  !" 

"  Fishing  nets,"  said  Fanny.* 

^  Then  he  has  caught  his  fish  before  the  net  is  made, 
that's  all,"  said  the  indignant  sister. 

The  truth  began  to  force  itself  upon  Mrs.  Amyott, 
who  loved  Everhard  Aylmer  as  a  brother,  and  yet 
exclaimed :— ; 

"  Oh  !  fool  that  I  have  been,  not  to  foncy,  or  fear,  or 
foresee,  or  guard  against,  so  fatal  a  match  1  Emma  a 
soldier's  wife  ! — petted,  spoiled,  and  indulged  all  her 
life,  and  now  to  dream  of  Eyerhard  Aylmer,  and  the 
West  Indies  I" 

The  thought  was  positive  anguish;  and  poor,  timid, 
little  Mrs.  Amyott  was  nearly  at  her  wits'  end. 

Her  hope  was,  that  Enmia,  so  haughty  and  cold 
to  all  mankind,  might  not  return  the  attachment 
A  pio-nic  to  Richmond  next  day  fully  opened  her 
eyes.  There  was  a  large  party ;  but  Aylmer  ¥ras 
ever  by  Emma's  side.  He  was,  indeed,  absent  and 
silent,  and  she  was  ennuy^;  but  the  vigilant  sister 
detected,  in  a  furtive  smile,  symptoms  of  a  mutual 
intelligence  between  them.  They  might  not  hare 
spoken,  but  they  understood  each  ol^er ;  and  it 
was  aU  over  with  her  prudent  care.  Worse  hap- 
pened. Emma,  without  a  word  of  advice  asked  or 
taken,  that  day  rejected  Mr.  Crore,  and  discouraged 
the  attentions  of  Sir  William  Crewe  and  Captam 
Forrester.  Mrs.  Amyott  was  in  despair,  and  accused 
her  favourite  Aylmer  of  having  stolen  her  sister's 
affections  :-— 

^  On  the  contrary,"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Chetwood,  *^  you 
threw  them  in  temptation's  way,  and  now  you  blame 
the  innocent  one." 

^  Lizzy  I"  cried  Mrs.  Amyott,  looking  up,  **  how  can 
you  say  the  innocent  one  1" 

"  Because  I  believe  him  to  be  the  innocent  one  !  Wait, 
Fanny,  and  see— judge  for  yourself.  Cold,  haughty,  and 
proud  as  Emma  is,  Sxe  cannot  be  quite  insensible  to  a 
man  like  Mr.  Aylmer — ^without  any  exception  the  hand- 
somest man  you  know." 

^  Elizabeth  !  this  ftom  you  t" 

"  Yes.  I  have  watched  Mr.  Aylmer  in  society  when 
you  little  thought  I  was  noticing  you ;  I  have  heard  his 
high  character  from  friends,  and  even  brother-officers; 
and  I  have  studied  him  when  I  have  met  him  at  your 
house.  I  feel  as  if  I  knew  him  perfectly,  and  on  the 
strength  of  that,  I  gave  you  my  earnest  adyice." 

<"  I  will  take  it  1— indeed,  indeed,  I  will  1"  exclaimed 
Mrs.  Amyott,  tearfully  |  *<only  give  it  to  me." 

The  advice  was  to  send  for  Aylmer,  and  to  speak 
to  him  as  a  friend,  entreating  1dm  not  to  interfere 
with  her  sister  s  brilliant  prospects*  Mrs.  Amyott 
wrote  the  note  of  summons^  while  esclainusg— 


i^HE  BELLE  OF  THE  FAMILY. 


107 


'Ah  me  I  what  would  I  giye  for  riches^  and  power,  to 
ittke  two  poor  ereaturea  happy  !  Oh,  Bessy  I  God  grant 
w«  may  nerer  repent  inteifering,  in  this  way,  with  the 
bappinefls  of  one  so  yery  dear  to  us  as  Emma  !" 

"  Write  on,"  waa  all  that  Mrs.  Chetwood  said. 

Again  Mrs.  Amjott  reyolted  from  her  painful 
task;  and  now  Mrs.  Nugent,  the  match-making 
aunt)  set  upon  her ;  and  every  one,  even  Charles 
Amjott^  took  the  liheriy  of  telling  Emma  how 
foolish  ^e  had  been  in  rejecting  Mr.  Gore.  To 
Mrs.  Nugent's  assurance,  that  when  she  recovered 
her  senses  she  would  wish  for  Mr.  Gore  back  again, 
Emma  stoutly  replied : — 

"  Then  yon  know  very  little  of  me,  aunt  Nugent^  if 
yon  think  I  am  made  of  such  materials,  and  that  I  would 
nerifiee  my  happiness  beeanse  a  good  matoh  happened 
to  offer  it0el£."  .  •  .  •  And  Emma  retired  abruptly 
to  her  own  room,  to  hide  the  bitter  tears  that  pride  prison- 
ed back  as  long  as  it  possibly  oould.  There,  too,  the  phan- 
iom  of  fear  followed  her.  Daunted  at  last,  harassed, 
&ti^ed,aad  dispirited ;  tortured  by  some  inward  thoughts, 
which  she  would  impart  to  no  one;  placed  in  the  wilder- 
sea  of  London,  with  no  friend ;  upbraided  by  one  thor- 
osiilily  worldlyslsterjflyingthe  society,«»  teU  d.  tke  of  the 
o(her,whom  she  tenderly  loved,  and  whose  heart  she  knew 
ihehid  wounded;  the  spirit  of  the  young  and  hitherto 
prmd  girl  seemed  positively  dying  within  her,  and  she 
lobbed  Ions  ^^^1  bitterly — ^tears  of  real  anguish  in  that 
wnrU  from  the  bri^tness  of  whioh  she  had  been  led  to 
expect  so  mach. 

In  a  few  days  it  was  remarked  by  Mrs.  Amyott, 
that  her  sister  Emma  knew  much  more  of  the 
prirate  affairs  of  Aylmer,  than  either  his  friend 
Charles  or  her  matronly  self.  Emma  was  aware 
that  he  had  not  got  an  exchange  of  his  regiment,  of 
which  there  had  been  some  talk.  Emma  had  given 
information  about  him  required  by  Mr.  Amyott, 
while  concealing  her  face  among  the  curls  of  her 
fittle  nephew  :-^ 

"  He  had  not  on  Thursday,  when  we  were  at  Rich- 
mond." And  this  time  the  pale  cheek  did  bum,  and  the 
deep  colour  dyed  even  the  fair,  small  hands  that  were 
tremblingly  holding  little  Amyott's  cup  and  saucer;  and 
Ur«.  Amyott  fixed  the  look  of  a  basilisk  on  her  sister. 

**  What  reason  did  he  give  for  the  delay,  my  dear  girl ! 
be  qoickyfor  I  am  in  a  prodigious  hurry,"  said  Charles. 

^  He  was  hesitating  on  account  of  the  expense :  that 
exchsoge  was  to  cost  some  hundred  pounds,  and  he 
thought— as  his  health  was  improying — *' 

**  Hurrah,  then  !"  cried  Charles,  "  for  my  father  has 
set  sU  right;  and  you  will  see  by  that  letter — the  kindest 

letter  in  the  world—" And  Charles 

Amyott  rushed  out  of  the  door  as  hurriedly  as  he  ran 
m. 

Fumy  waa  more  nettled  than  ever  she  had  been  in 
her  life—nettled  at  her  sister's  want  of  confidence  in  her. 
"  li^"  she  ejaculated,  as  she  flew  up  stairs  on  her  way  to 
Mr.  Amyott,  ^  if  the  girl  had  but  thrown  her  arms  round 
By  neck,  and  been  candid  with  me,  and  told  me  she  did 
care  for  this  man,  I  feel  I  could  not  haye  stood  it ;  I 
ihoold  haye  gone  through  fire  and  water  for  them.  But 
BO :  spoilt,  mlfhl,  proud  child  1  Eyerhard  Aylmer,  thall 
%u  remain  in  her  society  to  be  made  miserable;  and  the 
■•meat  of  escape  has  arrived  !" 

The  interview  between  Mrs.  Amyott  and  the 
mpeeted  lover  took  place.  It  was  long  and  pain- 
M,  At  the  close,  Mrs.  Amyott  ventured  to  in- 
quire if  ever  Aylmer  had  given  her  sister  any  reason 
to  sappoee  that  there  was  foundation  for  the  reports 
of  his  attachment.  He  had  all  along  been  stoicaUy 
calm  and  cool,  but  now  he  replied---- 

In  a  tone  of  the  firmest  decision,  whilst  his  lips  sud- 
denly qniyered.  **  I  am  too  keenly  aliye  to  my  position 
hi  the  worid,  ever  to  haye  done  so;  and  beyond  that 
HQ^stioD^  Mrs,  Amyotii  I  trust  you  will  not  go.    Yon 


have  infiicted  pain  this  day,  as  gently  and  kindly  as  was 
possible,  and  1  trust  you  will  spare  me  more  1" 

Fanny  revived.  Her  pride  had  had  a  slight  shock, 
when  she  fancied  her  sister's  value  was  not  appreciated; 
but  she  was  now  satisfied,  and  she  expressed  herself  so. 

"  And  about  the  exchange  1"  she  adced,  as  he  rose  to 
take  an  abrupt  leave. 

**  I  shall  withdraw  the  application— it  is  better— it  is 
best — "  he  answered  quickly.  ^  By  the  time  my  leave  ex« 
pires,  believe  me,  I  shall  be  quite  ready  and  most  willing 
to  go!" 

To  the  West  Indies  he  was  to  go ;  and  he  pro* 
mised  everything  required  of  him — save  to  forget. 
He  pressed  Mrs.  Amyott*s  hand  convulsively  at 
parting,  as  he  whispered,  **  You  cannot  expect  U,** 
The  same  evening  Charles  Amyott  told  his  wife, 
the  attachment)  if  it  existed  at  all,  had  not  been 
mutual :— • 

Mrs.  Amyott  started  at  first,  but  soon  recovered  her* 
self. 

**  Just  what  I  thought !  just  what  I  always  suspected  1 
When  Bessy  teazed,  and  worried,  and  persisted  in  my 
putting  a  stop  to  it,  I  always  told  her,  and  indeed  I  told 
my  aunt  Nugent  as  well,  that  I  doubted  if  Emma  cared 
in  the  least :  and  I  am  sure  no  one  can  have  fblt  more 
for  Everhard  this  day  than  I  have." 

*'  He  seemed  so  cut  up,  did  he  I"  asked  Mr.  Amyott, 
sarcastically. 

**  No,  not  exactly  that;  but—" 

**  So  crest-fkllen  at  being  discovered,  eh  I" 

''No,  indeed !  rather  the  contrary  ;  but — ** 

**  Well,"  said  Mr.  Amyott,  with  a  shrug,  ''you  and  Bessy 
had  nearly  made  a  nice  mess  of  it !  Let  me  ask  you,  why 
did  not  two  such  wise  old  heads  attack  Emma  herself  \ " 

"  Because  she  would  have  laughed  at  and  defied  us." 

"Not  she,  trust  her  !  Now,  then,  for  my  secret  that 
you  took  your  oath  about :  the  (act  of  the  matter  is,  it 
is  all  on  her  side  1" 

For  a  moment  Mrs.  Amyott  was  breathless :  she  only 
uttered  the  word  "  Charles !"  and  stood  almost  like  a 
statue.  Mr.  Amyott  repeated  the  words,  and  then  paused 
for  an  answer. 

"And  he  I  did  he  dare  to  say  so  f "  she  suddenly  ex- 
claimed, whilst  her  eyes,  usually  so  mild,  absolutely 
fiashed  fire :  "did  he  presume  to—" 

"  Gently,  gently,  my  dearest  t  Eyerhard  Aylmer  is 
not  the  kind  of  fellow  to  dare  much  where  you  ladies 
are  concerned,  or  to  presume  anything  at  all ;  neither  is 
he  base  enough  to  boast,  or  betray  the  fact,  of  a  woman's 
preference." 

"  Charles,  for  shame !"  cried  Mrs.  Amyott  indignantly. 
"  To  insinuate  this  against  Emma,  against  the  sister  of 
your  own  wife." 

"  Venus  one  as  dear  to  me  as  a  brother,  Fanny,  t 
do  not  deny  that  he  has  been  attentive  to  her ;  he  could 
hardly  help  it.  He  has  been  fiattered  too,  of  course,  by 
the  undisguised  preference  of  such  a  beautiful  girl  as  she 
is,  after  iJl:  but  as  to  his  heart — ^not  he  !    .    .   .   . 

"  Oh,  pride  I"  burst  firom  Mrs.  Aymott's  lips,  as  she 
clasped  her  hands  over  her  eyes, "  what  a  fall ! " 

This  secret,  confirmed  by  the  changed  and  faded 
face  of  the  proud,  sUent,  and  forsaken  girl,  deeply 
grieved  Fanny ;  and  she  was  relieved  when  aunt 
Nugent,  who  was  going  into  Wiltshire  with  her 
noble  protSgi  Cecy  Gertutl,  carried  Emma  down  to 
her  brother  s  parsonage. 

Emma  had  lingered  out  a  last  baU,  a  last  opera, 
but  had  met  no  Aylmer.  The  morning  of  her 
departure  found  the  spoiled  and  petted  beauty  in 
one  of  her  worst  humours.  She  contrived  to  make 
herself  thoroughly  disagreeable  to  her  aunt,  and 
Hstened  with  the  utmost  nonchalance  to  the 
descriptions  which  the  gentle  Cecy  Gerard  gave 
her  of  the  society  she  was  to  meet  in  Wiltshire* 
There  were  the  Vanes  and  the  Clarendons^*- 


108 


THE  NEW  NOVELS. 


^  And  the  Roohforto,  do  yon  know  them  T  *' 

^  No/'  answered  Emma,  languidly. 

**  Oh,  X  thought  you  might ;  because  they  are  related 
to  Mr,  Aylmer." 

Emma  turned  her  large,  wild  eyes  slowly  on  the 
speaker. with  a  look  of  interrogation  as  speaking  as 
words  ;  and  Miss  Gerard  answered  it  by  saying — 

'*  They  are  yery  rioh  old  people,  with  an  only  child  ; 
a  nice  girl,  who  looks  more  like  their  granddaughter, 
for  she  is  still  in  the  school-room.  She  will  be  immensely 
rich,  heiress  to  their  loTely  property." 
■  These  few  words  brought  the  shadow  baek  to  Emma's 
face,  and  she  leant  silently  out  of  the  carriage,  watch- 
ing the  rapid  OTolutions  of  the  wheels,  for  miles  and 
miles. 

In  the  crush-room  of  the  Opera-house  on  the 
previous  night  she  had  heard  herself  thus  canvassed 
by  a  group  moving  through  the  room  : — 

She  had  heard  the  question,  "  Do  you  know  Miss  Vas- 
sall  by  sight  1"  and  the  answer— 

'^  I  am  not  certain  that  I  should ;  but  wherever  Mr. 
Aylmer  is,  yon  need  not  look  far  beyond." 

''  Oh,  but  I  heard  that  Aylmer  was  relaxing." 

**  Very  possibly  ;  I  never  thought  it  could  be  serious. 
The  Vassalls  are  as  poor  as  church  mice,  and  it  is  only 
wonderfhl  how  those  two  have  married  so  tolerably. 
You  know  the  fether  ;  did  you  ever  hear  t" 

*"  Oh  yes  ;  shot  himself." 

Emma  Vassall  quivered  at  the  last  words,  even  more 
than  at  the  sentence  that  had  preceded  them  ;  there  was 
no  whisper  on  that  subject  too  low  for  her  ear. 

In  Wiltshire,  Emma  was  as  much  admired  as 
she  had  been  in  London.  One  gentleman  of  high 
birth  and  lai^  fortune  her  pride  gloried  in  having 
rejected,  some  hours  before  his  insolent  mother, 
Lady  Mary  Forrester,  came  to  warn  her  against 
the  presumption  of  receiving  her  only  son's  ad- 
dresses, or  of  aspiring  to  come  into  her  family. 
The  rejected  lover  afterwards  went  abroad,  leaving 
his  mother  in  despair,  and  the  haughty,  though 
mortified  Emma  fiercely  triumphant.  When  her 
brother  came  home  on  that  day  he  found  her  in 
a  state  of  great  excitement.  When  interrogated 
as  to  what  Lady  Mary  had  done — 

^  What  did  she !— what  dared  she  t  rather  what  dared 
she  not !  But  I  trampled  on  her  pride  ;  I  sunk  her  to 
my  feet ;  I  laughed  at  her  fallen  greatness,  and  I 
triumphed  !"  cried  Emma  Vassall.  ^d  she  paced  the 
room  with  a  step  that  told  the  excited  state  of  her  feel- 
ings, as  much  as  her  panting  voice  and  flashing  eyes. 

Lawrence  could  not  forget  that  the  r^utal  had 
been  written  before  the  mother  came. 

There  was  a  friend  now  in  Wiltshire,  Sir  William 
Crewe,  more  clear-sighted  as  to  the  real  feelings  of 
Aylmer  than  Charles  Amyott,  who  had  merely 
remarked  the  silence  of  the  lover  witliout  reading 
his  anguished  brow  and  quivering  lip.  This  gentle- 
man, who  was  in  Aylmer's  confidence,  and  who 
also  understood  or  guessed  at  the  feelings  of  Emma, 
now  heard  of  her  rejection  of  Captain  Forrester. 
Sir  William  had  been  furious  at  the  step  taken  by 
Mrs.  Amyott ;  while  Aylmer  himself  only  blamed 
her  for  having  thrown  him  and  Emma  so  constantly 
together.    They  talked  of  Mr.  Gore : — 

^  Miss  Vassall  refused  Gore  !"  said  Everhard,  hastily. 

''She  did,  she  did  !"  pursued  his  friend,  elevating  his 
eyebrows  :  **  then  I  would  stake  my  existence  her  sister 
did  not  know  of  it  till  it  was  all  over." 

''  I  cannot  tell.  I  only  know  tiie  fact,"  answered 
Everhard  Aylmer. 

<*  That  girl  is  a  jewel  I"  exclaimed  his  friend.  "  Take 
my  advice — pursue  her,  save  her  before  she  is  spoilt ; 
take  her  with  her  high  generous  spirit  fl'esh  opon  her, 
and  l*aTe  the  rest  to  fate  !" 


<<  How  gladly  would  I !"  ezcUimed  Eferhard ;  <<biit 
fete  may  be  just  as  advene  as  fortune  has  been  I  Besides, 
there  is  a  sober  reality  connected  with  the  romsnoe  of 
this  affiur  ;  she  has  not  sixpence  !  And  I !  what  hsYe 
11" 

'^  Famt  heart,"  began  Sir  William. 

*^  Yes  I"  said  Everhard,  warmly,  <'  I  have  a  funt 
heart  where  she  is  concerned  !  I  have  faint  heart  for 
giving  her  a  barrack  home,  and  marching  her  behind  s 
regiment  for  the  best  of  her  days." 

*^  I'd  risk  it,"  persisted  Sb  William. 

« I  dare  not!" 

<<  Come  now,  Aylmer,  Usten  to  reason.  You  are  on  the 
eve  of  making  an  enormous  sacrifice  for  the  sake  of  the 
girl  whose  affections  you  have  chosen  to  win ;  and  yet 
that  very  sacrifice  tends  only  to  make  her,  if  she  cares 
half  a  straw  for  you,  miserable  I  Yon  are  abont  to 
leave  the  country,  without  giving  her  even  the  poor  ntis- 
fection  ;  for  it  is  a  satisfaction,  of  hearing  you  say  thst 
she  is  the  cause." 

Aylmer  could  think  of  nothing  but  his  poverty. 
In  Wiltshire,  Sir  William's  further  silent  and 
close  observation  of  Enmia,  convinced  him  that 
she  was  still  true  to  his  friend. 

One  morning  at  the  parsonage,  the  staid,  dnty- 
loving,  estimable  young  clergyman  told  his  excit- 
able sister  that  he  expected  a  strange  guest ;  and 
the  restless  and  conscious  Emma,  ever  r^tdy  to  take 
alarm,  was  confounded  when  he  said-^ 

*'  Yon  are  to  have  a  visiter  all  to  yourself  to-day.  I 
bespeak  your  best  warmth,  best  manner,  and  best  looks. 
He  is  coming  out  of  his  way  from  Gerard  Park  to-dax, 
to  see  you." 

**  Oh,"  said  Emma,  drawing  a  long  breath,  whilst  the 
colour  gradually  returned,  and  flew  over  her  face,  ^  I 
shall  be  enchanted  to  see  him."  And  the  visiter  ar- 
rived !  Sir  Courtney  Emlp.  He  was  a  very  fine-look- 
iog  man,  in  the  prime  of  life,  stately  in  his  manners,  high, 
haaghty,  cold,  yet  pleasing  when  he  chose  ;  and  bearing 
on  his  broad,  unwrinkled  brow,  the  deep  trace  of  the 
soar  which  bore  witness  to  the  perils  he  had  encoan- 
tored  in  his  country's  cause.  It  was  a  high-soanding 
name,  and,  as  Emma  laughingly  remarked  when  he  went 
away — 

<^  A  sort  of  name  that  requires  a  flourish  of  trumpets 
before  its  announcement.  And  now  that  I  hare  ac* 
taally  seen  that  general  himself,  he  is  the  very  kind 
of  person  who  would  require  the  flourish  for  his  own 
sake." 

General  Emlyn  was  a  first  cousin  of  Mrs.  Vsssiu. 
She  had  been  in  his  younger  days  a  first  love,  and  dis- 
appointed ;  she  was  his  last,  for  he  never  married.  His 
brother-officer  and  rival,  then  a  gay  Captain  Vassall, 
**  won  the  prize  ;"  and  the  study  of  General  Eml  jn's 
after-life  had  been  to  watch  her  fate,  with  never-varying 
interest,  and  seize  everv  opportunity  of  making  hii 
wealth  of  use  to  her  fetherless  children  :  and  yet  this 
had  all  been  achieved  so  silently  and  suddenly,  that  Mrs. 
Vassall  could  only  bless  him  for  his  goodness,  for  he  never 
came  near  her  for  her  thanks. 

He  had  stood  godfether  to  her  youngest  son,  Tom 
Vassall,  and  sent  him  to  sea  according  to  his  own  wish. 
It  was  through  his  generosity  that  Lawrence  received  a 
Christ-Church  education,  and  through  his  interest  that 

he  had  obtained  the  living  he  possessed 

When  on  a  visit  at  Gerard  Park,  he  suddenly  found 
himself  within  a  few  miles  of  the  youngest,  and  report 
said  the  fairest  dau^ter,  and  therefore,  he  added  to  him- 
self, **  the  one  most  like  her  mother." 

It  was  a  temptation  the  General  could  not  resist.  And 
little  dreaming  or  thinking  how  long  that  warm,  young 
heart  had  been  beating  to  see  one,  on  whom  they  had 
all  been  taught  to  look  as  a  benefeotor  in  every  way  to 
the  family,  he  was  introduced  to  Emma  VassalL 

*"  Undeniably  beantifel  I  She  is  like  a  dream  of  the 
past,"  muttered  General  Emlyn  between  his  teeth,  as  be 
set  them  hard  ^  to  tka^e'^  his  curricle  through  the  narrow 
and  humble  entrance  of  the  parsona^. 


THE  BELLE  OF  THE  FAMILY. 


109 


Shortly  after  this  Sir  Conrtn^y  volunteered  « 
lisit  to  High-Down  House,  Mra.  Vassall's  resi- 
dence in  Surrey,  and  Emma  was  recalled  to  help 
to  entertain  him.  The  London  sisters  held  a  con- 
sultation oyer  this  Yisit,  which  the  sensible  Mrs. 
Chetwood  thought  a  very  inconsiderate  one. 

''A  man  of  his  thonaands  descending  on  our  poor  mo- 
tiler's  humble  Utile  oottage,  when  I  am  sure  she  is  less  able 
to  afford  the  expense  at  tins  moment,  than  at  any  other 
possible  time  he  could  haTe  chosen !  Tom  and  Emma 
at  home  !  and  poor  Helen  and  the  doctors  and  all !  And 
DOW  Fanny,  in  the  name  of  all  that  is  dreadfkil,  what  are 
we  to  do  with  Tom  and  his  debt  1 " 

^Tom  is  incorrigible,"  said  Mrs.  Amyott,  angrily. 
"  Knowing,  as  he  does,  bow  often  mamma  has  scraped  and 
screwed  to  humour  him,  he  ought  to  go  and  Uts  on 
cheese  parings !" 

**  Mamma  says  three  hundred  would  not  cover  them,  or 
I  would  go  halres  with  you  so  far. " 

Sir  Conrtney  arrived  punctual  to  his  day  and 
hour.  He  had  seen  in  Wiltshire  his  first  love 
reanimated  in  Emma  Yassall ;  and  now  his  object 
was  to  demand  from  Mrs.  Yassall,  with  all  the 
itate  and  formality  of  past  times,  the  hand  of  her 
yoongest  daughter. 

To  Emma  herself  he  had  breathed  no  hint  of  his  in- 
teotioDi.  It  was  to  the  mother,  already  oyerpowered  by 
tk  weight  of  obligations  that  he  had  showered  on  her, 
tbat  his  first  appeal  was  made,  and  Mrs.  Yassall  was 
tfraek  dumb  with  surprise. 

Daring  the  first  few  moments  the  great  disparity  of  age 
was  the  predominant  feeling  in  her  heart ;  but  this  gave 
waj  to  conscioasness  of  the  enormous  adyantages  of 
fiueh  a  connexion,  and  the  brilliancy  of  a  fate  linked 
with  that  of  a  man  who  had  been  such  a  benefactor  to 
the  Cuoily,  and  whose  wealth  appeared  unbounded. 

The  mother  did  what  we  fear  only  too  many 
good  mothers  of  these  times  would  have  done.  She 
gave  her  consent  and  promised  her  influence  ;  hut 
she  shrank  from  speaking  herself  to  Emma,  and 
devolyed  the  task  upon  her  son  Lawrence.  He 
reluctantly  performed  it,  and  in  the  presence  of 
the  mother  and  invalid  sister.  Emma,  deeply  feel- 
ing the  obligations  of  her  family  to  General 
Effllyn,  had,  from  the  first,  taken  peculiar  pains  to 
please  and  gratify  him.  But  now  when  she  heard 
her  brother- 
Mote  and  breathless,  with  a  face  of  such  ashy  pale* 
aeas  that  Lawrence  expected  every  moment  to  see  her 
drop,  stood  that  bnoyaat  figure,  now  trembling  with  dis- 
may, and  listening  with  strained  and  almost  agonized 
attentioa,  as  he  pointed  out  to  her  the  advantages  to 
be  derived  from  the  connexion  ;  the  reason  she  had 
giren  him  to  sappose  her  answer  would  be  favourable  ; 
the  loss  his  friendship  and  assistance  would  be  to  her 
£mily  were  it  otherwise  ;  and,  finally,  the  stigma  to  be 
attached  to  her  name,  if  the  world  heard  of  her  having 
trifled  with  one  to  whom  she  had  every  reason  to  be 

etenially  grateftil At  first  she  did 

Mt  leera  to  comprehend  rightly  that  the  pleading  looks 
«f  her  mother  and  the  persuasive  tones  of  her  brother, 
eoald  possibly  be  in  earnest ;  her  startled  senses  did  not 
bow  how  to  collect  themselves. 

'  Marry  that  old  man,  mamma  1  yon  must,  yon  most  be 
joting  1  Lawrence,  I  will  not  believe  it  1  marry  a  man 
old  enough  to  be  my—" 

She  stopped  suddenly,  for  the  silent  name  of  **  father*^ 
aerer  passed  the  lips  of  General  Vassall's  children  m 
presence  of  the  widow. 

**  Marry  him  1  never  1  Sooner  let  me  beg  my  bread  ! 
Matry  a  vaa  for  his  money  1"  she  cried  with  indigna- 

tioQ  and  scorn **  Gratitude  1  is  that 

Boble  word  to  be  dragged  in  to  serve  in  such  a  ca»e  ! 


never  I  And  as  for  you,  Lawrence !  yon,  with  your  up- 
right, high,  and  strict  religious  principles  !"  she  added, 
turning  abruptly  on  him,  **  have  they  actually  drawn  you 
in  to  plead,  support,  outrage,  and  abuse  such  principles, 
by  aigning  on  so  unworthy  a  theme  t  impossible  !  and 
if  they  have,  you  are  argaing  against  your  conscience  I" 
There  finuna  Yassall  was  right  enongh.  The  silent 
monitor  was  busy  within  the  bmst  of  Lawrence. 

But  the  high-spirited  girl  was  soon  effectually 
tamed.  Her  elder  sister  arrived  from  London,  and 
said,  ^  Leave  all  to  me ;"  while  the  mother  s  heart 
relented  over  her  heloved  child. 

Mrs.  Chetwood,  according  to  her  usual  custom,  in- 
stantly hit  upon  the  straightforward  and  desperate  sys- 
tem. She  shut  herself  in  the  room  with  her  young 
sister,  and  for  hours  they  were  closeted  together.  What 
passed  during  that  long  interview,  Mrs.  Chetwood  did 
not  disclose.  A  dead  silence  had  reigned  throughout  the 
house,  and  the  well-known  sounds  of  Emma's  voicci 
raised  to  its  passionate  pitch,  had  not  been  heard  ;  but 
when  Elizabeth  rejoined  the  fiamily  circle,  she  greeted 
them  with  the  wonis — 

"  Congratulate  yourselves,  I  have  brought  her  to  rea- 
son ;  and  she  begs,  Lawrence,  that  you  will  go  and  speak 
to  her." 

"Oh!  Bessy,  what  have  yon  said  and  done!"  cried 
Mrs.  Yassall,  terified  that  the  stem  nature  had  b«en 
too  harsh. 

"Mother,  do  not  alarm  yourself.  I  had  only  a  few 
words  to  whisper  to  her,  and  they  did  their  errand  very 
speedily :  she  is  as  good  as  a  child ;  but  she  wants  you, 
Lawrence ;  will  you  go  1" 

"  Willshe  appear  at  dinner  1"  asked  Mrs.  Yassall,  anx- 
iously. 

"  I  suppose  so.    Why  should  she  not  t" 

"  Sir  Courtney  returns  to-day  ;  does  she  know  that !" 

"  I  really  never  asked.  I  did  not  go  beyond  what  I 
said  I  would  perform." 

Lawrence  sought  his  young  sister.  He  guessed 
the  secret  of  Mrs.  Chetwood's  mysterious  power. 
It  must  have  been  some  communication  respecting 
"poor  Emmas  first  unhappy  love." 

Lawrence  Yassall  had  seen  his  sister  in  very  few  of 
her  moods.  He  had  heard  of  the  violence  of  her  temper, 
even  from  a  child,  and  he  had  witnessed  a  little  of  it  at 
the  parsonage  ;  but  he  was  not  prepared  for  the  humour 
in  which  he  found  her  on  repairing  to  her  room. 

The  wretched  girl  was  pacing  up  and  down,  accord- 
ing to  her  favourite  custom,  as  though  the  boundary 
ft^m  wall  to  wall  were  irritating  and  torturing  her— 

<*  The  prisoned  thrush  may  brook  the  cage. 
The  captive  eagle  dies  for  rage.*** 

And  Emma's  disposition  partook  very  much  of  the  lat- 
ter spirit. 

She  stopped  suddenly  when  he  entered,  and  looked 
unshrinkingly  on  the  mild,  subdued  countenance,  so  sor- 
rowftil,  that  met  her  gaze. 

«  Well,"  she  exclaimed,  «*  have  they  told  yon  !  do  you 
know  t  Are  you  come,"  she  added,  with  a  bitter  smile, 
**  to  congratulate  1" 

*^  No  !  but  to  expostulate,  Emma." 

<*  It  is  vain  ;  my  word  is  passed  ;  no  power  on  earth 
would  now  move  me.  Hear  me,  Lawrence  ;  do  not  think 
that  I  am  either  blmd  or  a  dupe.  I  may  be  a  tool,  and  I 
know  that  I  am !  I  know  that,  by  marrying  so  many 
thousands  a-year,  I  am  supporting  the  falling  fortunes  of 
my  family.  I  see  that  by  giving  a  valuable  hand  like  this, 
without  a  sixpence  or  a  heart  in  it,  to  Sir  Conrtney 
Emiyn,  I  am  ridding  my  mother  of  two  encumbrances  at 
once;  both  myself  and  Tom.  Therefore,  you  8ee,|though 
I  am  a  tool,  a  voluntary  tool,  I  am  no  dupe  I" 

Lawrence  was  shocked. 

The  brother  remonstrated,  and  entreated. 

Emma  stood  motionless  during  the  address,  and  she 
leant  her  head  against  the  window  frame,  and  closed 
her  eyes  as  be  proceeded.   The  colour  was  slowly  dying 


110 


THE  NEW  NOVELS. 


aw&7  from  her  cheek  and  lip,  and  she  murmured  indis- 
tinctly, **  My  word  is  passed/' 

We  cannot  give  the  continued  energetic  remon- 
strance of  him  who  spoke  as  a  hrother,  and  ex* 
horted  as  a  minister  of  God.  It  wrung  from  the 
wretched  young  girl  the  only  confidence  that  she 
had  ever  yet  imparted  to  any  human  heing. 

^Brother  I**  cried  Emma,  starting  from  her  attitude, 
^  you  may  argue,  you  may  exhort,  you  may  despise  ! 
but,  Lawrence,  yon  cannot  persuade  1  words  have  been 
spoken  to  me  to-day  that  are  burning,  burning  here  1" 
and  she  clasped  her  hands  on  her  breast.  ^  No  sentence 
you  can  utter  can  efface  them,  or  soften  their  effect. 
Yon  say  Elizabeth  would  not  tell  you  what  she  said  ! 
then  I  will  tell  you  myself.  But  remember  this,  that 
you  are  the  first,  the  only  mortal  to  whom  my  secret, 
80  long,  so  jealously  guarded,  has  erer  been  revealed." 

Her  voice  shook  at  last,  and  the  feminine  feelings  of 
her  nature  were  reassuming  their  sway.  She  began  in 
that  low  and  tremulous  tone  which  invariably  influences 
the  voice  when  *^  Vobfet  aUnff*  is  the  theme,  and  quickly 
and  clearly  recounted  the  history  of  the  first  few  weeks 
of  her  life  under  Mrs.  Amyott's  roof.  At  last  she  came 
to  the  episode  itself. 

"  People  first  watched  us,  and  then  reports  began  to 
be  circulated.  We  did  not  listen  to  them ;  we  closed  our 
ears,  Lawrence,  for  it  was  a  happy  dream  to  be  together  ; 
and  if  one  had  breathed  these  world's  whispers  to  the 
other,  the  spell  would  have  been  severed.  Ah  me !  are  we 
not  severed  now !  But  I  did  not  know  then  what  I 
know  now.  I  went  on  trusting — hoping — fully,  firmly 
believing — deceived  by  his  looks — by  his  actions — 
his—" 

She  paused  ;  and  as  she  laid  her  head  on  her  brother's 
shoulder,  large  heavy  drops  began  slowly  to  force 
themselves  tl^ough  the  lids,  which  she  still  kept  firmly 
dosed. 

Lawrence  could  not  speak,  he  felt  for  her  so  keenly. 

As  she  went  on,  expressions  of  blame  were  ut- 
tered by  the  indignant  brother;  but  to  these 
Emma  would  not  listen.  No  word  of  meaning  had 
ever  passed  Ayhner  s  lips — ^no  hint ;  but  still  she 
had  hoped,  till  now  that  Elizabeth  had  driven  her 
frantic^  and  she  exclaimed— 

'I  could  have  died,  to  live  and  hear  her  say  so 
ealmly,   ^The  man  himself  denies  all  participation,  if 

any  attachment  does  exist.'  " 

'*  Lawrence,"  she  added,  suddenly  stopping,  and  passing 
her  hand  over  her  forehead,  **  you  had  better  go  now.  I 
am  getting  bewildered  ;  my  word  is  passed.  Tell  my 
mother  not  to  fear  ;  I  shall  not  retreat.  And  now,  Law- 
rence, leave  me  I  But  remember,  tell  them  'all — let  no 
soul  come  near  me,  leave  me  to  myself ;  I  shall  play  my 
part  well,  and  appear  in  proper  time.  Hark  !  there 
eomes  Sir  Courtney  I  Now,  remember  I  have  done  what 
they  wished,  and  I  will  go  on  to  the  end,  but  only  on 
one  condition,  that  I  am  left  to  myself !  No  interrup- 
tions, no  congratulations,  no  thanks,  'but  peace,  or 
they  will  drive  me  beyond  my  own  control.  Now  I  am 
wound  up,  and  can  encounter  the  worst."  And  Law- 
rence, the  good  and  excellent  brother,  left  her,  saddened, 
and  mennSiilly  impressed  with  the  story  of  her  life^  so 
simply,  yet  so  incoherently  told. 

In  the  trying  scenes  that  preceded  the  marriage, 
Emma  acted  her  part  weU.  Only  once,  when  she 
learned  from  her  prudent  sister  Uiat  their  spend- 
thrift brother,  Tom,  was  again  in  difficulties,  while 
listlessly  holding  in  her  hand  a  case  of  diamonds, 
presented  by  Sir  Courtney,  she  expressed  a  wish 
that  she  might  use  the  diamonds  for  her  brother^s 
relief. 

**  Leave  Tom  and  his  money  matters  alone  "  said  Mrs. 
Chetwood. "  Depend  upon  it,  he  is  not  one  to  lose  anything 
for  want  of  asking." 

**  Ask  ?"  cried  Emma,  starting  up  j "  yon  don't  mtan— 


that  he  would  ask  Sir  Courtney  for^for— filizabetli 
what  do  you  mean  1 " 

^  Pshaw  I  Emma,  how  foolishly  sensitive  you  are. 
Who  do  you  suppose  is  to  take  our  gallant  brother  out  of 
his  lively  dilemmas,  unless  it  is  the  only  married  man  on 
whom  he  has  the  slightest  claim  t" 

^  Claim !"  exclaimed  Emma,  vehemently  ;''wfaat  claim 
has  he,  or  have  we,  on  Sir  Courtney  Emlyn  !  Claim !— 
claim  ! — on  a  man  who  has  loaded  us  with  his  liberality  i 
Ask  a  pecuniary  favour  of  a  man  who  is  acting  so  nobly 
and  disinterestedly  at  this  very  moment,  that,  if  I  were 
to  live  a  thousand  years,  I  should  still  feel  a  debtor  to 
the  last  degree  !".... 

*  In  spite  of  your  heroics,  however,  I  suspect  Tom's 
debts  are  more  easily  liquidated.  Certainly  Tom's  heart 
seems  much  lighter  within  the  few  last  days,  than  it  did 
when  Sir  Courtney  first  proposed  to  you." 

Emma  hid  her  face  in  her  hands. 

**  This  is  indeed  dreadftil ! — already  to  begin.  Had 
they  but  waited  :  but  no — to  be  like  sharks  the  instant 
he  was  in  the  toils.   Shocking  !  shocking !"    .    . 

The  picture  of  poor  Emma's  mind  at  &is  moment  was 
most  melancholy.  Her  temper  was  more  than  ever  un- 
even, her  spirits  most  unequal.  There  were  moments 
when  she  gave  way  to  bursts  of  merriment  most  unusual 
to  her,  and  at  others  she  sunk  into  sullen  gloom.  Her 
poor  mother  watched  her  with  feelings  which  only  a 
mother  can  understand  :  it  was  a  mixture  of  sympathy, 
reproach,  tenderness,  and  sorrow.  She  longed  to  talk 
to  her,  to  expostulate,  nay,  even  to  reprove  her,  and 
yet  she  feared  to  rouse  any  greater  excitement  in  her 
breast. 

Helen  Vassall,  the  sick  sister,  was  the  one  towards 
whom  Emma  had  always  shown  the  most  unvaried  for- 
bearance. Her  gentle  nature,  and  suffering  state,  had 
rendered  her  ever  an  object  of  tenderness  to  the  high- 
spirited,  but  really  warm-hearted  girl ;  but  now,  even 
towards  her,  she  occasionally  gave  proo&  of  temper 
which  pained  the  poor  invalid  and  shocked  her  mother 
to  witness. 

"  My  child,"  Mrs.  Yassall  was  at  length  roused  to 
say,  (one  morning,  after  having  watched  with  deep  and 
nervous  concern  the  irritable  manner  with  which  Emma 
treated  the  meek,  enduring  Helen,)  '^  how  altered  yon 
are  of  late  t  It  displeases  me  to  see  yon  thus  give  way 
to  every  impulse  of  your  temper  ;  I  remember  the  time 
when  nothing  could  have  drawn  from  you  an  unkind 
word  to  Helen." 

Emma  coloured  violently.  The  next  moment,  she  burst 
into  a  passionate  flood  of  tears  ;  and  starting  from  her 
seat,  she  rushed  towards  the  sofk  upon  which  her  mother 
was  seated.  She  knelt  before  her,  and  hid  her  face  upon 
her  lap,  sobbing  bitterly. 

Mrs.  Yassall  was  much  moved  at  this  unusual  sight ; 
for  Emma  seldom  allowed  her  softer  feelings  to  erince 
themselves.         / 

**  Oh,  mamma,"  she  faltered  forth,  ^  do  not  ohide  me ; 
for,  in  the  state  of  my  feelings  at  present,  a  harsh  word 
firom  yon  will  break  my  heart.  I  do  indeed  endeavour, 
for  your  dear  sake,  to  stifle  much  that  I  feel :  for  your 
sake  alone  I  do  it.  And  mamma,  in  the  midst  of  all  my 
failings,  all  my  imperfections,  you  know  that  I  haTo  al- 
ways loved  you,  always  endeavoured  to  please  you :  way- 
ward as  I  have  been  to  others,  to  you  I  have  been  an 
affectionate  child ;  have  I  not,  mother  t  You  asked  me, 
and  I  have  broken  with  every  feeling  which  I  have  cher- 
ished ;  and  in  so  doing,  you  may  believe  that  my  poor 
heart  is  very,  very  sore  ;  so  this  is  not  the  moment  to 
chide  me,  dearest  mamma.  Helen  will  forgive  me,  I 
know ;  for  she  is  sure  that,  in  spite  of  my  apparent  nn- 
kindness,  I  love  her  dearly." 

What  were  Mrs.  Yassall's  feelings  1 

Emma's  marriage  was  arranged,  and  the  world 
had  its  talk.  "  Sixty,  if  a  day,"  was  the  age  of 
the  bridegroom  ;  some  said  **  sixty-eight,"  but 
**  well  made  np,"  and  with  fifteen  thousand  a-year. 
Everhard  Aylmer  now  vowed  that  his  last  si^^h 
for  Emma  was  heaved ;  while  Emma — But — 

The  deed  was  done,  for  the  marriage  preliminaries 


THE  BELLE  OP  THE  FAMILY. 


Ill 


were  pfooeeding  with  nnasnal  rapidity ;  and  Emma  Vas- 
Ball  still  liTing  reeklessly  on^  ander  the  influonce  of  her 
deloEioiiy  was  carrying  it  all  with  a  high  hand. 

It  was  thus  thai  Sir  William  Crewe  saw  her  one  day, 
when  he  was  calling  at  Mrs.  Chetwood's,  from  whose 
boose  she  was  to  be  married  ;  and,  lorely  as  she  was, 
there  was  something  so  repugnant  in  her  manner,  that 
he  left  the  house  with  the  impression  strongly  stamped 
apon  his  mind  that,  afterfall,  his  friend  had  had  an  escape. 
He  had  casnally  (probably  by  accident)  mentioned 
Ereihard  Aylmer's  name,  and  looked  in  yain  for  the 
crimson  blush  that  a  few  short  weeks  before  would  hare 
eorered  the  fhir  young  fkce. 

Men  are  quick  enough  in  seeing  a  blush,  but  they 
do  not  appear  to  be  equally  aliye  to  the  deeper,  the 
more  heartfelt  emotion,  which  robs  the  cheek  of  its  co- 
lour, and  gradually  leares  it  bloodless  ;  he  might  hare 
seen  that  had  he  glanced  again ;  but  he  saw  nothing  save 
the  short,  fhll  lip,  curling  more  proudly  tnan  usual ;  and 
he  left  the  house,  to  use  his  own  expression,  **  quite  dis- 
gusted." 

Ere  the  door  had  closed  on  him,  that  young  girl 
was  locked  in  her  own  room,  flung  on  her  bed,  in  aJl  the 
petulant  riolence  of  grief,  repentance,  and  remorse  ;  but 
it  was  too  late  !  Little  did  Sir  William  Crewe  imagine 
all  the  torture  which  was  going  on  in  that  proud  but 
WriBg  heart. 

A  woman's  lore  will  truly  outliye  hope ;  from  Emma, 
hope  was  gone  for  eter  !  but  still,  unfortunate,  ill-regu- 
lated |irl !  still  she  loTcd  ;  and,  in  wretchedness  and 
despsir,  how  often  did  busy,  mocking  memory,  bring 
hsek  to  her  mind  the  happy,  happy  days  that  were  past. 
The  long  tables  laid  out  for  the  marriage  break- 
fast ran  through  Mrs.  Chetwood's  two  long  draw- 
ing-rooms. Every  face  was  gay  when  the  bride 
had  left^  save  her  sister  Fanny^s.  She  hid  herself 
behind  a  pillar  between  the  rooms  to  conceal  her 
red  eyes,  and  thanked  Heaven  that  in  this  mar- 
riage ^  without  a  spark  of  love^ "  she  had  had  no 
pait» 

**  If  I  lire  a  thousand  years,  I  shall  never  forget  the 
ezpreasion  of  her  countenance  just  before  she  said  the 
word  'I  will,'  when  she  looked  so  wildly  round  the 
eharch  as  if  to  ask,  '  Is  there  no  one  to  save  me  !*  How 
that  look  will  eyer  haunt  me  I"  and  Mrs.  Amyott's  tears 
feU  bitteily. 
Mrs.  Nugent  thought  Fanny  very  foolish. 
To  oblige  her  brother  and  his  young  nautical 
frwndfl^  Mrs.  Amyott,  on  the  same  evening,  gave  a 
httle  dance  and  a  sandwich  supper,  as  Mrs.  Ghet- 
wood  would  not  hear  of  dancing  on  her  fine  car- 
pets; and  to  this  dance,  in  honour  of  Emma's 
bridal,  was  Aylmer  dragged,  and  gaily  he  joined 
in  the  revel.  **  This  is  what  the  world  calls  wear- 
ing the  willoWy*  cried  a  witty  young  lady  in  the 
dance ;  and  long  afterwards,  when  Eiuna  chanced 
to  hear  of  it,  she  exclaimed  in  bitterness  to  herself, 
"He  oonld  dance  on  my  wedding-day." 

The  marriage  of  Lawrence  soon  followed  that 
of  his  sister*  The  amiable,  rich,  and  high-born 
Ceey  Gerard  was  gladly  surrendered  to  the  humble 
nelor,  to  whom  she  had  given  her  young  affec- 
tions, by  parents  who  judged  him  by  his  worth 
tod  his  power  to  make  their  daughter  happy,  and 
nyt  by  his  wealth  or  station. 

'^  I  am  sure,  if  ever  any  one  deserved  happiness  he 
to,"  said  I^y  Emlyn,  as  she  tossed  the  letter  across 
the  table  to  her  husband  which  announced  the  marriage. 
*  Why  so  r  asked  Sir  Courtney. 
Emma's  eyes  sparkled  as  she  raised  them.  She  forgot, 
MOe  moment,  that  the  question,  ^  Why  so  1"  was  a  fk- 
vooriie  phrase,  broai^t  in  to  serve  on  every  occasion, 
lad  often  used  by  Sir  Courtney  when  he  had  heard  the 
Kakttce  that  preceded  it. 


She  only  Ikneied  it  implied  a  doubt  whether  Lawrence 
did  deserve  to  be  happy  or  not ;  and  with  her  usual 
thoughtless  petulance  she  prepared  to  defend  his  cause 

warmly The  Emlyns  had  now  been 

married  three  months,  and  the  time  had  passed  very 
swiftly,  but  not  so  smoothly  as  Sir  Courtney  had  ex- 
pected. Emma  had  never  in  her  life  been  thwarted  in 
anything,  and  he,  half  unconsciously,  thwarted  her  con- 
tinually ;  this  gaye  rise  to  opposition  on  her  part,  and 
argument  on  his,  and  sometimes  the  two  voices  rose  ra- 
ther high,  for  people  who  had  not  eyen  returned  from 
their  wedding  tour. 

Immediately  on  their  marriage  he  had  taken  her 
abroad.  She  had  always  had  great  ideas  of  the  Rhine 
and  Italy,  and  a  sort  of  romantic  longing  to  visit  both. 
The  word,  "abroad"  had  always  comprised,  in  her 
imagination,  the  two ;  but  when  Sir  Courtney  communi- 
cated to  her  their  proposed  route,  it  was  Spain  and 
France,  because  he  had  never  been  there  himself;  and 
this  was  the  first  subject  of  disagreement  between  them. 

"  France  !  the  very  name  of  which  I  hate  and  detest; 
and  Spain,  Sir  Courtney  !  I  have  a  horror  of  Spain." 

Thus  opposition  began.  Emma  discovered 
that  her  husband,  if  slow  in  receiving  ideas,  was 
doggedly  obstinate  in  all  his  purposes. 

The  next  failing  she  discovered  was  his  watchful  jea- 
lousy. If  on  some  sudden  impulse  of  her  warm  and  ener* 
getic  nature,  she  lavished  praises  on  Lawrence,  or  her 
sister  Fanny,  or  eyen  her  sick  and  suffisring  sister  Helen, 
and  her  voice  took  a  tone  of  tenderness  unusual  to  it.  Sir 
Courtney  was  visibly  annoyed. 

"  You  speak  in  an  accent  of  most  poignant  regret," 
he  once  said, "  as  if  you  were  never  to  see  them  again, 
or  as  if  I  had  treated  you  cruelly,  in  taking  you  from 
them.     Are  you  pining  for  home,  Emma !" 

"  Yes,  I  am,"  was  her  ready  reply ;  **  and  I  should  only 
be  too  enchanted  to  get  back  again." 

And  then  Emma  fell  into  a  train  of  musing :  she 
thought  of  her  home,  humble  though  it  was,  but  the 
abode  of  peace  and  love.    .....    She  whispered 

to  herself,  "  Why  did  I  ever  leaye  iti"  and  she  sighed 
bitteriy. 

Sir  Courtney  was  watching  her  countenance. 

**  I  do  not  know  what  kind  of  a  life  we  are  to  lead 
together,"  said  he;  "for  I  have  never  been  accustomed 
to  settling  down  in  any  fixed  home,  and  you  appear  to 
me,  my  dear  Emma,  to  dislike  travelling." 

"  It  is  three  months  since  we  left  England,"  answered 
Emma. 

•*  Then  we  will  return,"  said  Sir  Courtney  ;  and  with- 
out another  word,  preparations  were  commenced,  and 
Lady  Emlyn  installed,  in  due  time,  in  a  house  in  Belgraye 
Square,  a  palace  in  magnificence,  and  a  wilderness  in 
size.  Wealth,  the  wealth  she  had  so  long  coyeted,  was 
now  at  her  disposal.  She  had  unlimited  power  oyer  her 
husband's  house  and  purse,  and  nothing  she  asked  was 
ever  denied,  except,  mdeed,  it  was  going  out  alone  ;  that 
Sir  Courtney  positively  interdicted. 

Neither  in  the  carriage  in  the  morning,  or  to  parties 
in  the  eyening,  was  young  Lady  Emlyn  suffered  to  go 
unaccompanied  by  himself.  Having  no  occupation,  he 
was  always  at  her  seryice,  and  always  at  her  elbow.    . 

....  "  Just  as  if,  Sir  Courtney,  you  expected 
me  to  run  away  firom  you,"  she  petulantly  said. 

Sir  Courtney  was  indescribably  shocked  at  the  expres- 
sion. 

"  Run  away  from  me  1  Emma,  if  you  have  the  least 
regard  for  me,  or  my  happiness,  never  use  those  words 
again  !  I  have  no  doubt,  my  dearest  girl,  yon  were  in 
joke,  but  a  joke  on  such  a  subject  is  the  last  that  I 
should  wish  your  lips  to  utter." 

Mrs.  Vane,  a  silly,  flirting  member  of  Emma's 
society  in  her  first  season  in  London,  called  at 
Belgrave  Square,  and  told,  among  other  things,  of 
the  gay  dance  on  Lady  Emlyn  s  wedding-day. 

^  Such  a  delightfhl  party,  all  on  the  spur  of  the  mo- 
ment, which  nu^e  it  fifty  times  more  delightftal.  Your 
brother;  the  saUcr,  was  the  life  of  ns  all :  what  a  chsrm« 


112 


TnE  KEW  NOVELS. 


ing  wild  ereatare  he  is  ;  and  Mr.  Aylmer  was  quite  in 
spirits,  which  amosed  us  exceedingly  ;  for — "    .    .    . 

When  her  visiter  had  departed,  Emnuk  leant  back  in 
her  chair,  and  dosed  her  eyes. 

**  It  wanted  but  this  I"  she  mnrmnred  to  herself.  **  And 
now  pride,  aid  and  support  me  !  He  oould  dance  on  my 
wedding  day  !  dance  upon  the  grare  of  my  happiness, 
and  be  gay  upon  the  threshold  from  which  the  yietim 
had  so  lately  passed  I  So  the  worst  is  over ;  we  may 
meet  in  safety  now  ;  after  this  I  can  bear  it  welL" 

Sir  Courtney  entered  the  room  whilst  the  large  tears 
were  still  glistening  on  her  cheek,  and  earnestly  and 
anxiously  inquired  the  reason  of  them. 

^  Which  of  your  sisters  was  it  that  I  saw  leaying  the 
house  ;  and  what  has  she  said  to  you,  dearest !" 

'^  It  was  neither,"  said  Emma;  ^  and  nothing  particu- 
lar upset  me ;  I  only  feel  rather  low  and  nerrous.  I  was 
half  asleep  when  you  entered,  and  hardly  aware  that 
these  silly  tears  were  not  dried  up.  Pray  do  not  worry 
yourself,  Sir  Courtney,  for  Tery  often  when  I  sit  think- 
ing all  alone,  I  surprise  myself  by  feeling  these  tears 
drop  on  my  hand.  It  is  the  way  of  our  family  ;  we  are 
such  tearfbl  people  that  we  could  weep  if  you  only 
asked  us." 

Sir  Courtney  was  very  far  from  satisfied,  and  by  no  means 

contented  with  the  answer ^  Emma,"  said 

her  husband,  more  seriously  than  he  had  erer  yet  spoken 
to  her,  *^  your  truest  fHend  in  this  world  must  be  your 
husband ;  and  if  you  hare  mysteries  and  reservations 
from  him,  and  thoughts  in  which  you  allow  him  no 
participation,  God  help  us  both  !" 

Emma  was  too  proud  to  own  how  deeply  these  words 
affected  her,  but  her  silence  was  a  sign  she  felt  them.  . 

Amongst  the  many  good  and  noble 

traits  in  Sir  Courtney's  character,  was  his  continued  gen- 
erosity towards  the  Yassall  family.  The  recreant  Tom 
was  the  only  one  who  bad  greatly  tried  his  patience : 
yet  it  had  stood  the  test ;  and  after  making  the  payment 
of  his  debts  appear  as  his  sister's  wedding-present  to 
him.  Sir  Courtney  exerted  himself  unceasingly  to  pro- 
cure his  promotion,  and  launched  him  again  on  the  ele- 
ment of  his  profession. 

The  house  in  Belgrave  Square,  too,  became  the  resort 
and  rendesvous  of  every  member  of  the  family ;  and  when 
Helen  Vassall  required  medical  advice.  Sir  Courtney 
would  undertake  the  journey  to  the  High-Down  House, 
solely  that  Emma  might  have  the  satisfaction  of  bring- 
ing her  sister  up  to  town  herself. 

There  was  nothing,  in  short,  that  the  most  vigilant  and 
active  anxiety  for  her  happiness  could  suggest,  that  Sir 
Courtney  did  not  shower  down  upon  his  young  wife,  and 
at  last  smiles  began  to  move  the  scomfdl  lip. 

Emma  was  presented  at  Court,  and  was  uni- 
yersally  admir^,  while  all  the  ladies  were  jealous 
or  envious  of  her  diamonds.  Sir  Courtney  was  at 
all  times  troublesomely  anxious  about  her  ap- 
pearance. He  directed  her  dress.  She  liked  her 
hair  in  long  youthful  ringlets :  he  admired  the 
dignity  and  classic  chasteness  of  bands ;  but  on 
the  birth-day,  when  she  was  again  to  go  to  Court, 
she  offered  a  compromise. 

^  I  will  go  to  the  Opera  in  the  evening  with  my  hair 
in  bands  to  please  you,  provided  I  go  to  the  drawing- 
room  to  please  myself." 

**  The  two  cases  are  widely  diiferent.  They  admit  of 
no  compslilBon,  and  therefore  I  do  not  agree  to  the  com- 
promise," said  Sir  Courtney.  **  At  the  drawing-room  you 
will  be  surrounded  by  crowds  of  my  friends,  in  whose 
eyes  I  should  wish  my  wife  to  appear  to  the  very  best 
advantage.  At  the  Opera  you  will  be  shut  up  in  your 
box,  and  seen  by  so  few,  that  it  is  a  matter  of  very  small 
consequence  whether  your  hair  be  curled  or  plain." 

^  Then  I  am  to  infer,"  exclaimed  Emma  with  all  her 
girlish  petulance  and  haughtiness,  **  that  my  appearance 
is  of  no  consequence  to  you,  except  as  regards  the  opin- 
ion of  the  world  Y  th^t  I  am  to  dress  Uke  a  puppet  for 
others,  not  yourself  f"     ...     ...    Sir  Courtney 

rose  fVom  his  se^^  with  the  blood  mounting  to  l^s  fore- 


head, and  calmly  left  the  room  without  uttering  a  b;I« 
lable.  But  on  the  morning  of  the  drawing-room,  when 
Isidore  was  announced,  the  husband  and  the  hair-dresser 
entered  Lady  Emlyn's  presence  together,  and  seating 
himself  on  one  side  of  the  table.  Sir  Courtney  said  in  a 
firm,  distinct  voice — 

**  You  will  dress  Lady  Emlyn's  hair,  Monsienr  In- 
dore,  in  6aff4ieai»,  not  descending  too  low  on  either  side 
of  the  face,  and  the  diamonds  may  be  placed  as  they  wen 
the  last  time,  except  that  with  less  hair.  Another  chain 
may  be  added,  which  I  have  brought  for  your  accep- 
tance, Emma. "  And  opening  a  case,  he  quietly  laid  the 
costly  and  glittering  gems  across  the  beantiftil  handB, 
that  were  clasped  tightly  on  her  knees,  as  she  trembled 
with  passion,  and  panted  till  her  heart  seemed  bursting. 

But  her  pride  kept  in  the  torrent  of  angry  words  which 
her  lips  longed  to  play  in  reckless  defiance  of  her  bus- 
band's  will ;  for  one  glance  of  Sir  Courtney's  stem  and 
steady  eye,  moVing  from  herself  to  the  third  person  pre- 
sent, recalled  her  to  herself. 

It  was  in  this  state  of  mind  that  she  curtseyed  herself 
past  her  sovereign  ;  her  lips  compressed,  and  heavy  eye- 
lids swollen  with  tears,  lowered  over  them  ;  those  who 
knew  her  stately,  careless  manner,  wondered  that  dsT 
at  the  sudden  change,  and  little  dreamt  that  it  was  to 
be  attributed  to  such  a  source.  And  in  the  evening, 
without  altering  the  disputed  style  of  hair,  she  went 
as  usual  with  her  husband  to  the  Opera.  Towards  the 
close  of  the  ballet,  they  entered  the  crush-room,  to  await 
the  announcement  of  the  carriage. 

The  crowd  was  excessive,  and  Enuna  clung  closely  to 
Sir  Courtney's  arm,  when  suddenly  there  was  a  cry  of 
^  Mrs.  Rochfort's  carriage  stops  the  way  !"  and  the  gay 
trappings  of  a  young  officer,  who  was  passing  by,  caught 
in  the  lace  of  Lady  Emlyn's  dress.  She  looked  up  when 
the  murmured,  indistinct  words  of  apology  fell  on  her 
ear  :  their  eyes  met.  She  saw  the  flushed  brow,  and 
quivering  lip  of  that  well-remembered  face,  and  the 
speaking  emotion  of  every  agitated  feature. 

The  crowd  closed  round  them,  and  she  saw  no  more. 
A  confused  noise,  mingled  with  the  hum  of  voices  ;  and 
the  outlines  before  her  faded  one  by  one  ;  heavier  and 
heavier  leant  the  weight  of  her  slight  figure  on  Sir 
Courtney's  arm,  and  when  he  looked  quickly  in  her  face, 
she  was  fainting  and  falling,  pale,  cold,  and  senseless. 

The  breakfast  of  the  next  day  was  long  and 
silent,  Sir  Courtney  sitting  with  the  newspaper  in 
his  hand,  and  his  eyes  immoreably  fixed  upon  his 
wife.  Emma  became  impatient  and  angty.  She 
moved  her  chair,  and  said  some  sharp  things  on 
this  fixed  staring,  on  which  Sir  Courtney  intimated 
that  he  had  a  question  to  put  to  her. 

**  You  shock  me,  by  this  intemperate  indnl* 
gence  of  your  talent  for  repartee,"  was  the  mild  re- 
proof ;  **  and  my  question  calls  for  no  irritable  reply.  It 
is  simply  this  :  will  you  tell  me  the  name  of  the  gentleman 
whose  epaulette  caught  in  your  lappets  last  night  I" 

Emma  looked  steadily  at  her  husband.  She  knew,  by 
the  tone  of  his  voice,  that  though  he  pronounced  the  wordis 
carelessly,  the  curiosity  that  prompted  them  had  a 
deeper  motive,  and  the  impulse  that  dictated  them  was 
anything  but  impromptu. 

Hers  was  not  a  character  to  tolerate  suspicion,  nor  a 
temper  to  staad  distrust,  therefore  the  moment  the  ques- 
tion was  put,  she  prepared  herself  for  any  attack  that 
might  follow  ;  but  at  the  same  time,  as  an  answer  was 
positively  demanded,  she  descended  to  an  equivocation — 

"  I  did  not  look  at  him :  when  the  occurrence  took 
place  I  believe  I  was  fainting." 

An  almost  imperceptible  smile  curled  Sir  Courtney*8 
lip.  Its  sarcastic  expression  was  not  lost  on  its  object, 
and  she  answered  it  with  characteristic  defiance. 

^  Pray,  Sir  Courtney,  had  you  any  particular  motive 
for  wishing  to  know  that  person's  name  t" 

'*  Before  I  answer  that,"  returned  the  husband  with 
a  look  under  which  Emma's  eye  fell,  ^  allow  me  to  ask 
what  possible  motive^  Lady  Emlyn,  can  you  have  in  con* 
cealing  it  t" 


THE  BELLE  OF  THE  FAMILY. 


113 


Tlie  tables  were  turned.  JEmma  saw  at  the  instant, 
that  terror  of  her  husband's  jealousy,  and  of  him  alto- 
gether, iroald  lead  her  into  some  dangerous,  and  perhaps 
fatal  position,  unless  prompt  and  perfect  candour  in  her 
next  answer  extinguished  the  iire,  which  her  penrerse 
and  unsatisfoetory  speech  had  kindled.  But  then  the 
eqoiTocation :  she  said  she  had  not  looked  at  him. 

It  was  Sir  Courtney  himself  who  reliered  her  from 
her  embarrassment,  with  a  mildness  and  benignity 
which  touched  her  heart  infinitely  more  than  all  his 
nges. 

"  Think  again,  Emma.  I  am  perfectly  aware  he  was 
an  acquaintance,  because  I  obserred  him,  for  sometime 
preTioQsIy,  watching,  I  imagine,  for  you  to  bow.  I  allow 
that  yon  could  not  have  seen  him  if  you  were  taken  ill, 
bat  you  might  have  noticed  him  as  he  stood  waiting 
there." 

*'  I  oeTer  knew  any  one  so  strange  as  yon  are.  Sir 
Coortaey.    I  only  saw  one  person  in  the  whole  room  I 
knew,  and  that  was  Mr.  Aylmer." 
"  Was  he  in  nniform  t" 
•Yes." 

"  Humph  !  the  same  person.  Aylmer  was  the  name 
yon  say  T 

"Certainly.  Ererhard  Aylmer,  if  yon  like  it  better. 
And  now  that,  like  a  good  child,  I  haye  answered  your 
question,  permit  me  to  inquire  for  whom  you  took  this 
indifidnal  f  * 

"  For  a  Mr.  Aylmer  of  whom  I  have  heard,"  replied 
Sir  Conrtney,  pointedly.  "  And  now  you  see,  Emma,  that 
1  IB  willing  to  be  perfectly  candid  with  you,  prorided 
yoo  jnmt  me  the  same  indulgence.  As  Miss  Yaasall 
joor  name,  classed  with  that  of  a  Mr.  Gore,  often  came 
uder  my  notice  ;  and  I  believe  I  am  not  ignorant  of  the 
cimunstances  connected  with  the  acquaintance  between 
joa.'* 

"Possibly  not,"  said  Emma,  now  colouring  deeply  ; 
"bnt  on  that  subject  I  am  silent,  if  you  please  !"  .    . 

Thoughts  many,  vague,  yet  fevered,  wandered  through 
her  brain.  Was  this  the  prospect  of  her  future  life  t 
vu  this  the  '^  real*'  of  the  <<  ideal  1"  and  was  every  fresh 
new  year  to  bring  with  it  fresh  new  causes  of  doubt, 
snipicion,  distmst,  and  jealousy  t 

Oh  !  for  the  **  dinner  of  herbs,"  and  its  "love  there- 
with," than  sacli  a  lot  of  unrest,  and  life  of  splendour  ! 
And  yet  had  not  this  lot,  from  a  mere  child,  been  her 
heart's  desire  I  had  she  not  often  and  often  breathed  the 
pnyer,  and  coveted  the  bliss  which  she  had  dreamt  it 
mnst  bring ! 

And  tl:^  miserable  young  girl  looked  round  on  the 
loxnry  whieh  snrronnded  her,  the  magnificence  which 
sn  all  sides  met  her  gasse,  whilst  tears,  bitter  tears, 
streamed  in  torrents  from  her  eyes. 

Aylmer  related  the  incident  in  the  crush-room 
to  his  confidant,  Sir  William  Crewe,  who  now  re- 
tracted his  former  injurious  opinion,  and  owned 
that  he  had  done  Enmia  wrong.  There  had  been 
foul  play  somewhere.  She  had  been  sacrificed. 
"But  after  all,"  said- 
Sir  William,  with  the  laudable  wish  of  consoling  his 
friend  after  his  own  fashion,  **  it  does  not  tell  very  well 
for  her  principles,  considering  she  is  a  married  woman, 
to  go  fidnting,  and  making  scenes,  and  all  that.  Upon 
■7  vord,  I  wouldn't  stand  in  Emlyn's  shoes  for  a  good 
(ieal !  Yon  cannot  esteem  the  woman  who  has  suffered 
Iwrnlf  to  be  sacrificed,  or  have  any  Tery  high  opinion  of 
^,  after  so  certam  a  proof  that  she — ** 

**  Never  mind  my  opinion,  never  mind  that,"  inter- 
ntpted  Ererhard, "  nor  my  esteem.  If  the  scene  of  last 
light  were  ealenlated  to  lower  her  in  both,  it  has  but  re- 
▼ired  my  pity,  I  fear—my  tenderness  !" 
^  "  Then  now's  yonr  time  I"  cried  Sir  William,  earnestly. 
60,  Everhard,  leave  the  dangerous  ground,  be  firm 
sod  Strang  for  once—and  go." 

Everhard  went  abroad.  His  friend  soon  after- 
wards married  Mary  Clarendon  ;  and  from  her 
Emma  fimt  wiJcntally  loi^rnijd  Uow  dcaily  sb^  Ua<J 


been  loved,  and  how  cruelly  she  had  been  betrayed. 
This  past,  and  she  was  no  sooner  left  alone, 

Than  she  rushed  to  the  end  of  the  darkened  chamber, 
and  like  a  vehement  and  impetnons  child,  sank  passion- 
ately on  her  knees. 

It  was  all  over  ! — all,  all  over !— the  long  strife  of 
feeling,  and  struggle  of  hope,  and  doubt,  and  agony,  and 
despair  t  The  Teil  had  dropped,  her  conscience  was  at 
rest ;  she  had  been  deceived  and  sacrificed,  but  she 
thought  not  of  that  then  1  She  was  no  longer  the  weak 
wretch  in  his  eyes,  loving,  and  not  beloved  again  I  and 
this  idea,  this  consciousness,  was  unspeakable  joy,  and 
indescribable  relief !  The  triumphant  feeling  uppermost 
in  her  heart,  was  simply»  that  Mis.  Chetwood's  sentence, 
by  which  she  had  sealed  her  fate,  was  a  falsehood,  and 
that  Everhard  Aylmer,  when  he  pronounced  his  attach- 
ment hopeless,  mnst  have  been  totally  ignorant  how  truly 
and  sincerely  it  was  returned  1 — ^and  now  it  was  all  over  I 
She  was  the  wife  of  another,  and  they  were  severed  for 
ever :  and  she  rose  fi!om  her  knees  with  this  sensation 
of  boundless  relief  strong  upon  her,  and  good  resolutions 
crowding  fui  and  thick  into  her  brain 

Everhard  Aylmer  was  absolved  !  The  heartlessness, 
the  cold-bloodedness,  the  villany  of  which  she  had  sus- 
pected him,  and  which  had  lowered  him  to  the  dust  in 
her  opinion,  were  absolved,  and  he  was  acquitted  ! 

Emma,  not  yet  more  than  eighteen,  reached  a 
new  stage  in  her  married  trials.  Her  husband, 
from  being  stately  and  dignified,  became  gouty 
and  irritable ;  and  a  stiU  greater  change  was 
wrought  in  the  once  Tiolent  and  impatient  creature, 
who  now  watched  by  his  couch,  all  endurance, 
forbearance,  and  gentleness.  Her  new  condition, 
and  the  new  relations  of  the  ill-matched  pair,  are 
sketched  with,  we  think,  great  delicacy  and  felicity. 

To  her,  so  long  accustomed  to  receive  firom  him  love  that 
approached  to  adoration,  the  change  was  bitter  beyond 
expression.  When  he  showered  epithets  of  tenderness 
upon  her  name,  and  seemed  to  think  the  ground  itself 
not  good  enough  for  her  to  tread  on,  she  was  careless  of 
his  feelings,  and.  his  affection  was  unappreciated.  But 
when  once  she  began  to  miss  all  this,  to  have  to  sit  by 
his  side  in  the  bright  summer  days,  and  hear  no  endear- 
ing accents,  to  wait  indefatigably  on  him,  and  instead 
of  thanks,  to  receive  a  reproach  for  the  additional  an- 
guish which  perhaps  the  light  touch  of  her  small  trem- 
bling hands  had  caused, — then  the  high  spirit  and  the 
warm  heart  sank,  and  died  within  her,  and  she  would 
hide  her  fkce  in  her  hands,  and  for  the  first  time  in  her 
life,  breathe  fervent  prayers  to  Heaven  to  grant  her  pa- 
tience and  support — to  give  her  strength  to  combat 
against  the  bitterness  and  repining,  and  fortitude  to  for- 
get what  her  fate  might  have  been,  in  striving  to  do 
her  duty  in  that  which  it  was.  And,  hard  as  it  proved, 
it  appeared  that  she  succeeded ;  for,  when  the  fit  was 
over,  his  kindness  to  her  returned,  though  to  the  world 
he  was  beginning  to  grow  hot  tempered  and  variable. 

No  sooner,  however,  was  he  well  again,  than  Lady 
Emlyn's  **  quality  of  mercy  "  diminished,  and  words  of 
harshness,  that  were  endured  in  silence  when  her  hus- 
band was  suffering,  were  angrily,  and  often  vehemently 
returned,  when  health  and  strength  robbed  him  of  inter- 
est in  her  eyes. 

At  last  these  disputes  were  no  longer  like  angels' 
visits,  they  ceased  to  take  place  only  when  they  were 
alone ;  for  on  the  eve  of  Lawrence's  marriage,  when  he 
was  staying  in  his  sister's  house,  he  was  grieved  to  wit- 
ness one  of  them,  and  even  saw  Sir  Courtney  rise  to 
leave  the  room,  which  was  always  a  aga  he  was  irrita- 
ted beyond  his  self-control. 

''  Oh,  Emma  !  my  heart  bleeds  to  see  this  !  You 
will  lose  your  husband's  affection — indeed,  indeed  you 
will  I  if  yon  indulge  this  fktal  love  of  opposition  to  his 
wishes  I " 

**  His  wishes !  Lawrence ;  say  rather  his  orders !  X 
am  his  slave !  he  makes  me  live  the  life  of  a  drudge ! " 

"  Submit ;  it  is  a  wife'9  first  duty,"  argued  Lawrence, 


114 


THE  NEW  NOVELS- 


^  Lawrence,  no  woman  on  earth  oould  be  sueh  a  piti- 
ful wretch,  or  so  abjeot  a  alave,  as  you  wish  me  to  be — 
to  fkwn  apon  a  man  who  is  always  thwarting  me ! " 

^  Qod  help  UB  both,"  had  been  the  first  serions  ex- 
pression that  Emma  had  oyer  heard  from  her  husband's 
lips ;  and  now  that  the  same  fell  from  those  of  Law- 
rence, it  seemed  to  hare  gained  additional  weight  and 
power,  and  for  the  time-being  she  was  silenced. 

But  Emma  submitted,  made  the  amende  honors 
ahle,  and  was  restored  to  farour ;  and  thas 

They  continued  to  go  on,  like  ill-accorded  instruments, 
well  tuned,  perhaps,  and  perfect  in  themselves,  but  which 
could  make  no  harmony  together,  because  the  pitch  of 
the  one  was  different  ft^m  the  other. 

Sir  Courtney  Emlyn  had  married  a  comparatire  child, 
and  moreoTor,  a  spoilt,  wayward,  indulged  faTourite. 
How  difficult  was  the  task  he  had  imposed  upon  him- 
self !  The  lore  he  felt  for  this  ikir  young  being  was, 
indeed,  unbounded  ;  and,  strange  to  say,  her  rery  fikults 
and  follies,  by  adding  to  the  anxiety  he  felt  on  her  ac- 
count, only  increased  the  interest  she  created  in  his 
breast  But  we  can  easily  imagine  that  Sir  Courtney's 
life  was  not  one  of  tranquiUity,  and  that,  if  he  had  trusted 
himself  to  ponder  upon  the  subject,  he  might  hare  ques- 
tioned the  wisdom  of  marrying  a  girl  young  enough  to 
be  his  granddaughter. 

Sir  Courtney  now  became  as  proud  of  his  young 
wife  sitting  contentedly  by  hb  sick  couch,  as  of 
haying  her  beauty  admired  at  Court,  or  where 
she  sat  locked  up  in  her  box  at  the  opera.  He 
had,  from  the  first,  made  a  point  of  seeing  every 
letter  she  receiyed,  and  one  day  detected  her  in 
trying  to  conceal  one,  which  she  knew  was  from 
her  good-for-nothing  brother,  Tom,  and  which  she 
feared  must  contain,  as  usuaJ,  some  improper  de- 
mand. A  contest  arose  about  the  letter  with 
'*  the  foreign  post-mark/'  and  Emma  at  last  gave 
it  up,  saying— 

**  Remember,  in  your  displeasure,  that  though  I  am 
his  sister,  I  neither  share  in  his  sinfhl  extravagance,  nor, 
though  obliged  to  give  you  his  letter,  do  I  support  him 
in  his  disgraceful  request.** 

She  trembled,  as  well  she  might,  at  its  contents.  Tom, 
to  whom  Sir  Courtney  had  been  more  lavishly  generous 
than  to  any  one  of  the  fkmily,  was  devoid  apparently 
.  of  the  smallest  recollection  of  past  assistance,  or  the 
slightest  delicacy  as  to  repeating  his  applications  ;  for 
this  letter  contained  a  cool  request  that  his  sister 
would  exert  all  her  influence  and  power  to  wring 
from  her  husband  two  hundred  pounds.  Sir  Courtney's 
face  was  the  picture  of  concentrated  anger  and  in- 
dignation, but  it  softened  in  a  measure  when  his  eyes 
fell  on  Emma. 

'*  So,  Emma,"  ha  began  bitterly,  **  it  is  not  enough 
that  I  use  all  my  humble  influence  to  provide  for  your 
eldest  brother,  after  educating  him  to  the  scholar  that 
he  is  ;  it  is  not  enough  that  I  do  everything  in  my  limit- 
ed power  to  advance  the  interests  of  your  youngest,  in 
a  profession  to  which  I  never  belonged  ;  it  is  not  enough 
that  from  my  love  for  yourself,  I  have  often,  even  to  my 
own  inconvenience,  fostered  and  harboured  in  their  turn 
every  member  of  your  fkmily  ;  no,  all  this  is  nothing  I 
but  I  must  do  more  t  I  must  live  to  find  that,  instead  of 
marrying  one  of  you,  I  have  married  myself  to  the 
whole  ! " 

Emma's  colour  rose,  and  her  eyes  flashed  fire,  as  she 
impetuously  exclaimed,  whilst  she  proudly  drew  up  her 
slight  figure, — 

^  You  know.  Sir  Courtney,  it  was  all  your  own  ft«e 
will !  No  mortal  had  anything  to  do  with  your  mairying 
me  !  It  was  your  own  free  will  and  deed,  with  little  wish 
or  will  of  mine  ! " 

And  the  moment  the  words  had  escaped  her  lips,  she 
would  have  given  all  her  possessions  to  have  recalled 
them  ;  but  they  had  passed  :  Sir  Courtney  had  heard 
them !  Every  feature  of  his  fiice  showed  that  he  had  : 
they  shook  with  anger  and  dismay. 


These  things  also  past,  but  they  never  could  be 
forgotten.  There  was  again  reconciliation ;  bat 
confidence,  if  it  had  ever  existed,  was  gone  for  ever. 
It  began  to  be  whispered  that  Sir  Courtney  and 
Lady  Emlyn  were,  notwithstanding  their  brilliant 
position,  anything  but  happy. 

Though  the  laugh  was  on  the  lip,  there  was  bitterness 
in  the  heart ;  the  diamonds,  and  the  station,  and  thi 
wealth,  and  the  consequence,  had  all  been  bought  with 
a  heavy  price :  for  Lady  Emlyn  was  most  unhappy ;  ind 
the  world  for  once  was  right  when  it  pronounced  her  so. 

Tones  of  aJBTection,  and  tones  of  kindness,  had  for  some 
time  been  but  **  green  spots  in  the  desert "  to  Lady 
Emlyn.  A  change  had  at  last  come  over  Sir  Courtney's 
manner,  and  a  suspicions  attention  to  every  syllable  thst 
fell  from  her  lips  as  to  her  career  before  her  marris^, 
which  harassed  and  sometimes  tortured  her. 

Sir  Courtney,  by  accident,  learned  that  his  wife 
had  refused  the  rich  and  handsome  Captain  For- 
rester, and  he  consequently  concluded  that  her 
affections  must  have  been  preoccupied.  He  be- 
came morbidly  anxious  on  this  subject ;  and  once, 
at  the  conclusion  of  a  long  tete-a-the^  cried— 

^  From  my  earliest  yean  I  had  always  made  are* 
solve  that,  when  I  married,  it  should  be  to  a  woaun  ob 
whose  heart  no  other  had  yet  made  an  imprestioD. 
Emma,  for  the  sake  of  my  ftiture  peace,  confidence,  and 
happiness,  I  implore  you  to  tell  me,  was  your  marriige 
with  me  against  your  own  free  will  t  Was  it  rendered 
doubly,  trebly,  incalculably  more  distastefhl  to  yon  by 
the  existence  of  some  previous  attachment  I " 

Emma  too  well  knew  that  her  husband  was 
already  informed  on  every  point  on  which  he  de- 
manded explanation,  and  that  his  question  was 
but  a  piece  of  ingenious  cruelty.  She,  therefore, 
considered  herself  insulted  by  it,  and  disdained 
to  reply ;  saying  haughtily,  that,  with  the  vow 
registered  in  his  heart,  his  inquiries  should  have 
preceded  his  marriage. 

Emma's  sisters  were  not  unobserrant  qMctaton 
of  her  domestic  sufierings ;  and  the  kind  Fanny 
was  ready  to  commit  all  manner  of  follies  in  at- 
tempting to  redress  wrongs  of  which  no  one  ever 
heard  a  complaint  from  Emma ;  and  now — 

It  was  the  close  of  the  season :  the  Emlyns  were 
going  abroad,  and  had  given  their  last  grand  entertain- 
ment, when  the  morning  after  it  had  taken  plaoe,  while 
Emma  was  busily  employed  in  arranging  her  jewel  box, 
Mrs.  Chetwood  and  It&rs.  Amyott  were  announced.  Well 
did  Lady  Emlyn  know  theur  mission  ;  and  placid  wss 
the  smile  on  Uiat  beautiM  young  fMe,  as,  without 
pausing  in  her  occupation,  she  listened  to  the  alternate 
reproofs,  injunctions,  advice,  and  cautions,  which  issned 
in  rapid  turn  from  her  sisters'  lips. 

She  continued  composedly  brightening  up  the  costly 
gems  before  her,  with  her  long  black  lashes  resting  on 
her  cheek,  which  had  once  been  wont  to  tell  her  every 
feeling,  but  which  now  preserved  its  bright  transpa- 
rence, without  one  additional  tint  of  oolour,  until  after 
nearly  an  hour  had  been  spent  in  the  vam  errand  ;  the 
sisters  paused,  and  then  Emma  looked  up,  and  spoke— 

'^  I  thank  you  both,  if  this  is  meant  in  kindness.  I 
thank  you  once  more  for  your  interference  in  my  fate 
and  prospects  ;  but  I  intend  it  to  be  the  last  time  you 
do  so,  and  I  beg  you  will  remember  that  so  it  is  to  be ! 
Fanny,  I  am  not  now  addressing  myself  to  yon  :  it  is  to 
Elizabeth  that  I  wish  to  call  home  her  past  behaviour 
on  my  account,  and  the  long  course  of  inikmons 
treachery,  and  unpardonable  deceit,  of  which  she  has 
made  me  the  innocent  victim  ;  and  after  that,  Mrs. 
Chetwood,  preach  to  me  of  my  conduct  as  a  wife,  and 

talk  to  me  of  my  love  for  my  husband  !  ** 

**•  Yes  I  ''  contmued  Emma,  with  a  smile  of  the  bitterest 
triumph,  ^  you  have  no  longer  to  deal  with  a  dupe ! 


THE  BELLE  OP  THE  FAMILY. 


115 


bai  on  thai  mbjeet  my  lips  are  eU>6ed,  fear  no  betrayal 
from  me !  I  know  idl;  and  in  yonr  own  heart  I  leave 
joa  to  seek  the  rest  of  the  sting  conyeyed  in  those 
words ;  but  wheneTer  yon  tannt  and  reproadi  me  with 
my  conduet  to  my  hosband,  I  rise  against  you  I  Who 
Dsde  me,  by  a  shameful  falsehood,  Sir  Courtney  Emlyn's 
mk !  Yourself  I  Who  wiung  fix>m  my  existence 
erery  hope  of  happiness,  and  then  dares  to  say  I  make 
him  miserable,  bK)th  at  home  and  in  the  eyes  of  the 
world !  You,  Elizabeth  I  and  yet  both  of  you^  my  sis- 
ters, made  me  marry  this  man ! " 

*<  Oh,  Emma,  not  I ! "  burst  from  Mrs.  Amyott's  lips, 
which  were  white  with  agitation. 

^  You  aided,  Fanny  ;  you  supported  the  falsehood, 
which  drew  from  me  my  agonized  consent  I " 

*^  My  dear  sister  1 "  cried  Mrs.  Amyott,  flying  to  the 
folding  doors,  that  were  open,  and  closing  them,  **  if 
any  of  the  serrants,  or  your  husband,  sho^d  hear  all 
this!" 

"  Let  them  I  let  him  !  That  man,  for  the  last  eighteen 
months  of  my  life,  has  tortured  me,  by  a  succession  of 
tynnniefl,  which  I  hare  borne  in  uncomplaining  silence; 
jet  here  you  reproach  me  for  my  conduct  as  a  wife  I 
YoQ  forget  what  has  been  said :  there  is  a  point  to 
which  I  mean  to  go,  but  not  one  step  beyond  I  I  ac- 
company him  abroad  this  summer :  I  cling  to  him,  to 
ny  misery,  as  long  as  I  can  ;  but  the  moment  he  tries 
IK  beyond  my  patience,  beyond  my  power — so  help  me 
HeftTen  I  as  I  stand  before  you  both,  I  leaye  him  for 

It  was  a  dreadful  scene,  it  was  a  fearful  lessoa ;  and 
both  asters  were  shocked — eren  petrified  I 

On  this  same  morning  Sir  Conrtney  brought  in 
the  letters  of  the  day  to  his  wife,  and  retired  to 
read  his  own.  The  first  dropt  from  her  hand.  It 
was  written  torn  prison  by  her  brother,  who  had 
not  only  contracted  new  debtsy  but  embezzled  a 
considerable  sum  intrusted  to  him  by  a  poor  mid- 
shipman for  his  mother.  Emma,  overpowered  by 
her  feelings^  became  insensible.  When  she  re- 
ooreied  she  glanced  round  her  splendid  rooms, 
and  at  her  priceless  jewels,  and  thought  of  her 
wretched  and  disgraced  brother,  the  inmate  of  a 
prison. 

She  knew  that  at  that  moment  the  letter  which  would 
exasperate  her  husband  beyond  words  was  in  his  hands. 
She  blew  that  no  appeal  of  the  most  piercing  misery 
would  soften  that  stem  heart,  when  once  a  resolution 
was  fonaed ;  and  in  that  case,  what  was  to  become  of 
her  hapless  brother  I 

In  ^  agonizing  state  of  mind,  her  eyes  again  rested 
on  the  gems  before  her,  glittering  in  the  morning  sun, 
with  tl^  tiiousand  rays  of  light.  Quick  as  thought  an 
idea  entered  her  head  :  it  took  away  her  breath ;  but 
there  was  no  time  to  be  lost.  She  seized  a  case  of  dia- 
monds, and  tore  them  from  their  fastenings  :  she  caught 
them  from  their  places,  and  as  her  husband's  heayy  step 
approached  from  the  adjoining  room,  the  costly  treasures 
were  safely  and  securely  hidden  in  her  bosom. 
Sir  Conrtney  entered ;  and,  as  she  expected,  the  letter 
waa  flong  before  her. 

**  There,  madam  !  there  is  the  last  act  of  the  upright 
aad  honouable  brother  whose  cause  you  have  so  often 
aad  to  ably  pleaded.  You  will  plead  no  more,  I  imagine, 
when  you  read  this  bold  and  shameless  letter.  From 
a  prison  I  haTO  had  the  honour  to  receive  it ;  and  in 
tbat  prison,  before  I  stir  one  finger  to  release  him,  may 
itlifr-and  liye— and  die  I " 

Emma  clasped  her  hands  on  her  bursting  heart — no 
worda  coold  issue  from  her  dry  and  parched  lips.  She 
gated  wildly  on  her  husband,  as  he  stalked  nugestically 
out  of  the  room ;  and  no  sooner  had  he  left  it,  than  she 
^  to  the  beU,and  ordered  the  carriage  round  instantly. 
Ab  the  servant  descended  the  stairs  again.  Sir  Ck>urt- 
a«y  opened  the  door  of  the  next  room,  and  in  a  loud  de- 
cided voice  oountermanded  it. 
The  paagytha  aogiMsh  of  that  moment,  exceeded  all 


fonner  trials ;  when  suddenly,  as  if  to  saTO  her  in  the 
hour  of  need,  a  carriage  dashed  up  to  the  door,  and  Lady 
Crewe,  in  all  her  vnld  and  heedless  gaiety,  littie  imagin* 
ing  the  scene  on  which  she  was  entering,  ran  up  stairs, 
and  ushered  herself  into  the  room. 

Lady  Emlyn's  bonnet  and  shawl  were  on  ;  and,  never 
waiting  to  look  at  her  pallid  features  and  trembling 
figure,  Mary  Crewe  caught  her  round  the  waist,  and  in 
her  boisterous  liveliness,  insisted  on  her  going  out  with 
her. 

'^  You  must  I  you  must  I  you  must !  Nay,  not  a  word. 
You  can  countermand  your  own  carriage  in  a  moment 
and  come  with  me  for  once  in  a  way :  do— hey !  Oh,  yon 
must  I  I  have  such  ftin>-such  a  joke  to  tell  you !  Only 
think !  the  regiment  is  ordered  home,  and  we  shall  have 
our  friend,  '  Votjet  amii  ! '  here  before  we  know  where 
we  are  ! " 

^  Take  me  I  take  me ! "  panted  Emma,  utterly  regard- 
less of  the  last  few  words,  and  only  thinking  of  the 
jewels,  which  were  to  save  and  redeem  her  wretched 
brother—"  Take  me,  Mary  ! " 

But  as  she  breathed  the  entreaty.  Sir  Courtney,hither- 
to  concealed  by  the  large  screen  which  stood  between 
the  two  rooms,  advanced,  to  Lady  Crewe's  astonish- 
ment and  dismay  ;  and,  with  the  veins  of  his  forehead 
swelled  like  cords,  his  countenance  distorted  vnth  rage, 
commanded,  in  tones  of  stem  determination,  that  his 
wife  should  not  leave  the  house. 

''  Forgive  me  1 "  exclaimed  Emma,  in  a  voice  altered 
and  smothered  by  emotion,  as  she  clung  to  the  firm  and 
unflinching  figure  of  Lady  Crewe  ;  *'  forgive^  me  thia 
once !  but  I  am  not  to  be  commanded  in  this  one  in- 
stance I  For  the  first  time  since  my  marriage  I  disobey  1'^ 

"  You  do  ! "  cried  the  incensed  husband  ;  ^  you  do  !  ** 

^  I  must !  I  do  ! "  answered  Emma,  vrith  an  implor- 
ing glance,  most  unusual  to  her  ;  '*  forgive  me,  for  it  is 
the  only  time  I  shall  ever  offiend — ever  again  rebel.  Suf- 
fer me  to  go ;  or  if  not,  pardon  me  if  I  do ! " 

**  Never  I "  exclaimed  Sir  Courtney,  turning  away  ; 
"but go  I" 

And  with  these  words  ringing  in  her  ears,  she  left  the 
house. 

Two  hours  passed ;  two  painfrd,  dreadftil  hours  to 
poor  Emma.  She  knew  well  that  her  husband  was  of- 
fended—she almost  feared  past  forgiving, 

liady  Crewe,  vrith  all  her  bold  daring,  vras  subdued 
by  the  scene,  and  trembled  for  her  friend.  However, 
the  resolute  act  was  achieved ;  the  jewels,  clasped  with 
such  wild  delight  to  her  breast,  had  given  place  to  bank 
notes,  and  she  returned  home,  *^  fully  prepared,"  as  she 
said  to  Lady  Crewe,  on  bidding  her  an  agitated  good- 
by,  "  to  bear  every  severity  as  a  punishment  for  Tom« 
and  his  honour  saved ! " 

Emma,  on  her  return,  found  her  husband  suf- 
fering under  an  apoplectic  attack,  and  in  a  state 
of  utter  unconsciousness.  Her  wild  shrieks 
summoned  the  servants.  And  now,  filled  with 
grief  and  remorse,  she  sate  watching  him  who,  she 
felt,  had,  in  spite  of  her  faults,  and  passionate  and 
bitter  provocations,  been  the  fondest,  best,  kindest 
husband,  and  that  she  must  henceforth  be  alone ! 
alone ! 

Though  told  that  there  was  no  hope  left,  she 
watched  all  night  for  the  last  look,  whidi  at  length 
rested  on  her  face  with  an  expression  of  pity  and 
affection.  It  was  a  look  that  should  have  accom- 
panied a  blessing  could  the  sealed  lips  have  framed 
the  words  ;  and  it  was  the  last  I 

Dreadful  was  the  shock  to  poor  Emma ;  little  was 
she  accustomed  to  grief ;  never  before  had  she  witness- 
ed death. 

According  to  the  dictates  of  her  character,  she  felt 
this  sudden  stroke  moet  acutely,  most  fearfblly. 

She  shut  herself  up,  and  refused  to  see  any  of 
her  family,  till  Lawrence  came,  and  would  not  be 
denied. 


116 


THE  >'EW  NOVELS. 


LaHyEmlyn  found  that  her  original  jointure 
was  doubled,  and  that,  by  a  recent  codicil  to  hie 
wUl,  Sir  Courtney  bad  left  her  sole  executrix,  and 
placed  the  whole  of  his  property  at  her  disposal, 
with  the  exception  of  legacies  left  to  other  mem- 
bers of  her  family.    And  now-— 

She  had  lost  for  ever  that  ganeroas,  though  striot  and 
severe  gaardtan.  Never  more  should  she  hear  the  ac- 
cents of  his  Toice  in  kindness  and  affection :  its  tones  in 
anger  were  utterly  forgotten,  and  nothing  bnt  his  watch- 
tal  tenderness  and  care  remembered  1  Already  she 
missed  him ;  already  she  wrong  her  hands,  when  heavy 
steps  passed  np  and  down  the  stairs,  and  none  of  them 
ware  his  1  Oh,  human  nature  1  how  inconsistent  thou 
art! 

And  then  again  Emma's  heart  was  agonized  when  she 
remembered  their  last  parting.  It  was  altogether  a  bit- 
ter retrospect ;  and  though  her  tears  could  hardly  be 
said  to  flow  from  giief,  the  remorse  that  prompted  them 
was  infinitely  more  poignant  to  endnre. 

Lady  Emlyn  returned  to  High-Down  House; 
but  it  was  no  longer  felt  as  a  home.  She  took  a  large 
house  in  another  county,  and  her  mother  and  invalid 
sister  became  her  guests.  Her  days  became  more 
tranquil,  almost  happy ;  for  in  her  heart  arose  a 
secret  hope  that  irradiated  the  future.  The  head- 
strong impatient  girl  was  now  lost  in  the  enei^getic 
woman.  Still,  indeed,  self-sufficing  ;  still  high 
and  independent  in  her  course  of  action  ;  but 
generous  to  all  her  friends ;  attentive  to  all  her 
duties,  and  occupying  her  station  with  a  dignity  and 
propriety  that  might  have  won  the  approbation  of 
her  husband,  could  he  have  looked  down  upon 
her. 

Lady  Emlyn  went  to  visit  her  brother  and  his 
charming  wife  at  their  parsonage.  What  a  con- 
trast the  matrimonial  lot  of  the  estimable  couple, 
who  had  married  for  affection,  presented  to  the 
splendid  marriage  of  ambition,  to  which  Emma 
had  been  sacrificed,  and  had  sacrificed  herself. 

Aylmer,  who  had  now  returned  from  the  West 
Indies,  was  expected  in  this  part  of  the  country  on  a 
visit  to  his  relatives,  the  Rochforts.  They  might 
meet  again ;  and  Lawrence  Vassall  and  his  aiE^- 
tionate  Cecy  flattered  themselves  that  there  was 
Still  happiness  in  store  for  Emma.  Could  *'  good, 
])lain,  shy  Anne  Rochfort,"  rich  heiress  as  she  was, 
be  preferred  to  the  beautiful  widow,  Aylmer  s  first 
love  ?  But  there  was  no  one  at  hand  to  tell  him 
that  Emma  had  been  betrayed  and  sacrificed,  as 
Emma  had  learned  he  had  been.  They  met  at 
List ;  she  all  tremonrs,  but  controlling  her  feelings, 
and  sheltered  by  the  address  of  Cecy ;  and  he, 
cold  as  an  icicle. 

Whilst  she  sat  still  and  breathless,  her  heart  op- 
pressed by  a  thousand  fears  and  feelings,  Cecy  turned, 
and  said,-— 

<<  My  sister  Emma  is  here,  Mr.  Aylmer,"  and  a  low, 
distant  bow,  made  without  moving  from  the  spot  where 
he  stood,  was  the  only  acknowledgment  of  that  first  cold 
meeting  ;  and  it  vras  for  this  meeting  that  Emma  had 
80  long  existed.  This  was  the  hope  which  had  strength- 
ened and  cheered  her,  for  so  many  long  and  weary 
months  and  days ! 

"Oh!  but  ill, 

When  with  rieli  hopes  o^erfnught  the  younc  hiffh  heart 

Bean  iUfint  Mow.'* 

And  the  evening  passed  heavily  to  Emma,  and  she  re- 
joiced when  its  leaiden  hours  were  over.    .... 

f'  WeU.t"  excUimed  Mrs.  Lawxvnee  Vassall  to  her 
hubbaod,  as  soon  as  they  were  alone,  **  this  is  all  a  mys- 


tery  to  me — all  perfectly  iaeomprehensibls !  my  dear 
Lawrence.  He  never  went  near  her  the  whole  erening 
except  once,  to  ask  some  qnestion  aboat  the  Amyotts." 

'^  So  I  obeerved,'*  was  the  qviet  reply. 

^  Then,  did  yon  observe  at  dinner,  his  pointedly  leav- 
ing  the  place  opposite  to  Emma,  and  coming  ronad  on 
the  same  side,  where  it  was  impossible  for  them  to  set 
each  other." 

^  I  obseived  everything,  my  dear  Oecy ;  and  1  must 
oatttion  yoo  on  one  painty  and  that  is,  not  to  fiy  too  snd- 
denly  to  condnsions.  At  this  moment  Bfr.  Aybmr  rri* 
dently  thinks  himself  an  iU-ased  person." 

"  Poor  Emma  I  her  happiness  is  truly  at  stake  at 
this  moment,  and  it  makes  me  nervous  to  think  of  the 
resnlt.  If  the  love  which  she  has  so  long  cherished,  is 
at  last  nareqoited,  what  will  become  of  her,  when  will 
she  look  for  consolation  1 " 

And  such  wasthedestinythaiawaited  Emma,  ^4io 
was  to  suffer  more  as  a  lover  than  she  had  done  as  a 
wife.  A  plc-nic  excursion  to  Stonehenge,  during 
which  her  jealousy  of  Anne  Rochfort  was  awak- 
ened, drove  her  away  from  Wiltshire ;  and  when 
Aylmer,  repenting  the  triumph  he  had  momenta- 
rily felt  in  her  evident  distress,  rode  over  next 
day  to  the  parsonage,  the  ever  impetuous  EmmA 
was  already  gone !  Sh^  had  witneesed  Ayhner's 
attentions  to  her  young  rival ;  she  had  heard  from 
the  silly  and  envious  Mrs.  Vane  of  his  engagement 
with  the  heiress  ;  she  had  seen  him — 

Yet  could  it  be  1  Was  all  the  past  so  utterly  forgot- 
ten f  and  was  she  to  be  thus  repaid,  th»s  met  I 

It  could  not  be  I  She  felt  as  if  even  barhonring  the 
thought,  and  dwelling  on  the  subject,  were  doing  him  a 
wrong,  for  it  implied  belief  in  the  rusMar  of  his  inesn- 
stancy,  and  she  wonld  not  believe  it. 

And  yet  again,  was  inconstancy  the  right  wiurd  I  dared 
she  call  him  false  1  By  what  confession^  or  what  word, 
or  what  hint,  was  he  bound  to  her  i  Alas,  alas !  no&e, 
none  1— «fcve  confessions  of  love,  breathed  by  his  heart 
to  Heaven  in  earlier  days^not  breathed  to  her !  sad 
she  tried  to  recover  herself,  and  succeeded  ;  bat  in  the 
cTening,  in  the  silence  of  the  twilight,  when  she  and 
Mrs.  Vassall  sat  alone  by  the  parsonage  window,  a 
vision  floated  before  her  closed  eyes,  and  she  saw  agaia 
too  vividly,  that  gay  and  giddy  party.  She  saw  the 
small  slight  figure  of  Anne  Rochfort  vault  lightly  an- 
assistedinto  her  saddle,  as  the  party  dispersed,  sad 
she  saw  the  last  sight  of  the  spirited  bay  pony,  flyiag 
past  the  carriage,  bearing  its  young  mistress,  with  al- 
most winged  speed,  her  spaniel  puppy  on  her  arm,  sad 
those  same  strange  lustrous  eyes  turned  back  upon  him, 
who  was  urging  his  horse  to  its  ftillest  pace,  to  ebeflk 
the  light  triumphant  laugh  of  victory  that  raag  fnm 
those  joyous  lips. 

On,  on  they  swept  over  the  short  downy  grass  of  Sa)ii»- 
bury  Plain,  till  they  were  out  of  sight.  £mma»  however, 
never  forgot  that  last  sight  of  them. 

All  this  passed  once  mere  in  review  before  Lady 
Emlyn's  eyes ;  and  suddenly  sinking  oaher  knees,  and 
laying  her  head  like  that  of  a  psssionaite  child,  on  Ceey 
Yassall^s  lap,  the  floodgates  were  opened,  and  the  high, 
proud  heart  gave  way. 

Mrs.  Vane's  remarks  were  repeated  between  the 
bunts  of  anguish  and  despair,  and  for  the  first  time  \n 
her  life,  a  Axil  confession  or  her  feelings  was  poured  oat. 

Cecy  listened  in  silent,  deep»  and  eimeal  sgrmpatiiy> 
stroking  back  the  rich  ringlets  of  her  wavy  hajr»  and 
gently  kissing  her  burning  forehead,  till  the  paroxysm 
had  in  a  measure  subsided,  and  then  she  spoke  : — 

*^  Calm  yourself  dearest  Emma !  do  not  beKeve  one 
word  of  that  spitefol  woman's  story  1  Calm  yourself, 
and  reflect :  is  it  probable  t  is  it  like  him  I " 

''No,  it  is  not  like  him!  not  like  bini, a«.J^  voi'/ " 
said  Emma,  wildly  ;  '*  hut  he  may  have  changed.  He 
is  I  and  yet,  why  am  not  I  also  changed  I  Alas  ! "  f^ho 
murmured,  as  she  again  buried  her  fiice  in  her  hands,''  if 
the  tale  prove  true,  the  misery  of  my  life  has  b«i  begun !" 


TPIE  BELLE  OF  THE  FAMILY. 


117 


It  was  bnt  begun.  Yet  at  this  time  Aylraer  was 
Dot  engaged  to  Anne  Bochfort,  and  only  lored  her 
as  a  charming,  artless  girl — his  distant  relative. 
Yet  the  sammer,  the  autumn,  the  winter  wore 
away,  and  he  was  still  domesticated  with  the 
Rochforts;  and  Lady  Emlyn,  he  felt,  had  pointed- 
ly avoided  him ;  had  left  the  parsonage  abruptly 
when  he  might  have  been  expected  to  renew  his 
intepconise  with  her.  And  the  Rochforts  re- 
doubled their  kindness ;  and  though  Anne,  who 
made  pets  of  all  dumb  creatures,  and  lived  sur- 
rounded by  numbers  of  all  sorts  of  them,  did  not 
appear  in  love  with  her  soldier  cousin,  it  somehow 
came  to  be  understood.     Aylmer,  a  mere  man. 

Began  to  grow  like  himself  agaiu — ^lively,  happy,  and 
iadifferent  as  ever. 

Rochfort  was  the  biuu  ideal  of  an  old-fashioned  coun- 
try-hoosc.  It  was  a  long,  irregular,  castellated  style  of 
bmlding,  all  jottings  oat  and  in,  and  gray  and  mouldy- 
kwldng  exteriorly ;  but  inside  it  was  replete  with  every 
comfort  and  elegance  that  boundless  wealth  and  modem 
kinry  could  procure.  The  flower-gardens,  the  lawns 
and  the  parka,  with  their  herds  of  noble  deer,  all  told 
Ae  man  of  many  tbonsands  ;  and  as  Everhard  walked 
in  u  erening  round  the  grounds  with  Mr.  Rochfort, 
wHlsk  Anne  fed  the  different  pets  of  the  herd,  the  old 
mn  would  look  from  the  gigantic  trees  to  the  airy  figure 
ofhisdiild,  and  remark  with  a  chuckle  of  pride  and  de- 

''He!  ha!  one  wouldn't  think,  to  look  at  her,  that 
tfe  little  witch  will  have  to  give  the  word  of  command, 
SMK  of  these  days,  for  those  fine  old  foresters  to  be  cut 
down!" 

And  m  the  heart  of  all  this  quiet  splendour  had  ^  plain 
Auie  Roehfort "  been  bronght  up — happy  as  a  bird,  in 
ber  tnnquil  seclusion,  and  unsophisticated  as  a  child  in 
erery  thought,  word,  and  action. 

Everhard  Aylmer  had  lived  much  in  the  world,  and 
be  had  seen  the  women  of  many  nations  ;  his  taste  for 
ft  bean  en  general  had  led  him  where  he  might  rest  his 
eyes  on  every  variety  of  loveliness,  and  his  heart,  with 
&U  its  early  fresh  affections,  had  been  given  to  one  most 
beantifal  by  universal  acknowledgment;  but  still  in 
Aane  RoeUbrt  there  was  a  something  which  he  had 
MTer  yet  met — she  was  totally  different  to  every  creature 
he  had  seen,  and  he  could  not  tell  in  what  the  difference 
<^sisted.  It  would  have  been  absurd  to  say  that  it  was 
Waoae  there  was  so  little  of  the  woman  of  the  world  in 
her,  for  that  was  a  term,  the  meaning  of  which  she  could 
not  have  been  made  to  comprehend.  When  Aylmer  first 
aw  Emma  Vassall,  it  was  in  **  the  world."  She  seemed 
formed  for  society,  but  Anne  Rochfort  was  formed  for 
hone!  that  was  the  only  difference  that  Aylmer  ever 
wold  embody  in  words.    . 

Anne'fl  nnassnmed  simplicity  amused  him;  and  in  time 
be  discovered  that  there  was  no  small  portion  of  fascina- 
tion ia  it.  His  conversations  with  her,  which  grew  more 
&Dd  more  frequent  as  he  began  to  find  interest  in  them, 
hroQgfat  out  her  character  in  its  true  light,  and  gave 
Ma  opportunity  of  judging  of  the  soundness  of  her  young 
aiad. 

All  this  while  Emma  was  living  in  a  state  of  pro- 
tractedagony.  "Did  youeversee  such  a  wreck?"  said 
Wsister  Fanny,  now  Lady  Amyott,  to  her  husband ; 
**  we  miistforce  her  abroad."  Lady  Emlyn  would  not 
pi  abroad ;  hut  she  came  to  her  house  in  Belgrave 
^oare,  and,  ill  at  ease  as  she  was  herself,  under- 
cook to  act  as  the  chaperone  of  a  young  girl  whose 
artless  and  winning  manners  had  attracted  her  ; 
and,  thoQgh  against  her  rule,  the  beautiful  widow 
one  night,  in  compliance  with  Lily's  pleadings, 
yielded  for  once  to  take  her  to  a  ball.  Lily  was 
among  the  waltzers ;  and  immediately  behind  the 
seat  that— 

vou  xiw— no.  cxxii. 


Lady  Emlyn  occupied,  was  a  raised  bench,  on  which 
sat  the  old  ladies  side  by  side,  talking  in  so  audible  a 
voice,  that  Emma  thus  became  an  unintentional  eaves- 
dropper. After  mutual  inquiries  made  after  their  re- 
spective relations,  one  asked  the  other  when  the  marriage 
on  the  tapis  was  to  take  place.  She  hoped,  she  said,  it 
was  not  to  be  ftirther  postponed. 

"  Oh,  no,"  was  the  answer.  "  Indeed  I  hope  not ;  my 
sister  is  so  much  better  that  she  will  be  quite  able  to  go 
to  the  church  on  Thursday.  Anne  was  determined  to 
persevere  in  putting  it  off  till  her  mother  had  recovered 
sufficiently  to  be  out  again.  She  is  a  most  affectionate 
daughter,  and,  moreover,  generally  gains  her  point  with 
her  parents.  Her  approaching  marriage  is  a  proof  of 
her  unbounded  infiuence,  for  her  intended  has  absolutely 
nothing  of  his  own ;  however,  they  are  now  quite  satisfied. 
The  business  has  been  some  time  pending :  I  cannot  say 
myself  that  I  like  long  engagements,  or  such  affSurs 
hanging  so  long  on  hand.  Anne  has  been  engaged  some 
months.  He  proposed,  I  have  heard,  at  some  pic-nic  or 
other  last  summer;  actually  nearly  a  twelvemonth  ago, 
ma'am !" 

"  He  may  think  himself  a  very  fortunate  man,  ma'am  I" 
said  the  other  old  lady,  quaintly. 

"And  so  may  Anne,"  rejoined  the  first  speaker; "for 
he  is  a  most  estimable  young  man;  and  it  was  quite  a 
toss-up,  I  assure  you,  in  Wiltshire,  between  Anne  and 
that  beautiful  young  vndow,  Lody  somebody,  only  she 
took  French  leave  very  cavalierly  one  day." 

"  ReaUy !  and  will  Mr.  Aylmer  take  Miss  Rochfort's 
namel" 

"  Yes;  Anne  will  be  Mrs.  Aylmer  Rochfort." 
♦        ♦#«*•♦♦• 

There  was  at  that  moment  a  sudden  sensation  in  the 
ball-room,  and  a  crowding  of  many  people  towards  one 
spot ;  a  pause  amongst  the  dancers,  and  a  cessation  of 
the  music.  The  throng  were  dividing  to  make  a  pass- 
age, and  every  one  kept  asking  what  was  the  matter, 
without  being  able  to  obtain  a  satisfactory  answer. 

"  The  heat,"  said  Mr.  Gerard,  coming  back  to  Mrs. 
Vane,  who  had  sent  him  on  the  mission  of  inquiry, "  the 
heat  in  that  comer  was  tremendous,  and  Lady  Emlyn 
was  overcome  by  it,  and  has  fainted,  that's  all;  but  your 
carriage  has  been  here  this  hour — are  you  not  going  f* 

"  Fainted  1  How  fond  she  is  of  making  scenes !  Years 
ago  I  remember  her  dropping  down  in  the  crush-room  at 
the  Opera,  as  if  she  had  been  shot !  Well,  I  shall  not  go 
yet,  Gerard.  You  must  take  a  turn  with  me.  What  a 
divine  valse.    Come." 

The  moral  of  this  story  is  severe,  its  poetic  jus- 
tice harsh  ;  and,  moreover,  too  much  is  made  to 
depend  on  those  misunderstandings  and  cross-pur- 
poses, without  which  it  seems  impossible  to  carry 
on  the  plot  of  a  novel :  yet,  as  teaching  the  great 
lesson  of  prudent  self-control  and  reasonable 
wishes,  it  is  impressive,  and  forcibly  told. 


Harry  Monk^  the  other  talc,  which  fills  these 
volumes,  is  an  antidote  to  the  stories  of  the  Dick 
Turpin  school.  Ayoung,  affectionate,  and  well-born 
girl  forsakes  her  kind  old  father  to  follow  the  for- 
tunes of  a  man  of  whom  she  knows  nothing,  save 
that  he  has  a  handsome  person,  and  seems  violently 
if  selfishly  in  love  with  her.  He  is  found  to  be 
the  captain  of  a  band  of  highwaymen ;  and  the 
poor  girl,  from  the  moment  that  she  consents  to 
a  clandestine  marriage,  until  the  gallows  leaves 
her  a  wretched  widow,  abundantly  expiates  her 
rash  folly  and  credulity.  The  tale  is  laid  in  the 
time  of  the  Civil  Wars  of  the  era  of  Cromwell.  It 
is  well  told,  and  contains  much  to  disgust,  and 
nothing  to  fascinate,  in  the  truth-like  characters 
and  adventures  of  the  profligates  and  brutal  ruffians 
that  figure  in  it.    Its  main  fault  is  want  of  i-e  • 

K 


118 


THE  NEW  NOVELS. 


lief.  There  is  too  much  gross  and  hardened  vice, 
too  much  misery,  and  almost  too  mnch  of  suffer- 
ing inflicted  on  the  victim  of  a  loving  nature,  and 
a  weak  understanding,  great  as  her  folly  had  been. 
We  perceive,  with  regret,  that  the  other  novels 


on  our  list  must  for  the  present  be  deferred,  kst 
our  lighter  matter  encroach  too  far  on  the  wits, 
poets^  politicians,  and  Utilitarian  phjlosophers,  who 
elbow  each  other  for  places  in  the  popular  and 
well-crammed  pages  of  7bff« 


GERMAN  TRANSLATIONS  OF  POPULAR  SCOTTISH  SONGS. 


THE  SKYLARK. 

BT  JAMES  HOQO. 

Bird  of  the  wildemess. 
Blithesome  and  cnmberless. 

Sweet  be  thy  matin  o'er  moorland  and  lea ! 
Emblem  of  happiness. 
Blest  is  thy  dwelling-place — 

O,  to  abide  in  the  desert  with  thee  ! 
Wild  18  thy  lay,  and  loud, 
Far  in  the  downy  cloud; 

Love  gives  it  energy,  love  gave  it  birth. 
Where,  on  thy  dewy  wing, 
Where  art  thou  journeying  f 

Thy  lay  is  in  heaven,  thy  love  is  on  earth. 

O'er  fell  and  fountain  sheen. 
O'er  moor  and  mountain  green. 

O'er  the  xed  streamer  that  heralds  the  day. 
Over  the  cloudlet  dim, 
Over  the  rainbow's  rim. 

Musical  cherub,  soar,  singing  away  I 

Then,  when  the  gloaming  comes. 
Low  in  the  heather  blooms 

Sweet  will  thy  welcome  and  bed  of  love  be  I 
Emblem  of  happiness. 
Blest  is  thy  dwelling-place— 

O,  to  abide  in  the  desert  with  thee ! 


DIE  FELDLERCHE. 


Vogel  der  Wttsterei, 

FrShlichund  sorgenfrei, 
StisB  um  den  Plan  tdnt  dein  Morgenlied  mir, 

Sinnbild  von  Freude  bist, 

Selig  dein  Wohnort  ist — 
MScht'  Ich  auf  Oeden  nur  wohnen  mit  dir  ! 

Wild  dein  Gesang  und  klar 

Ueber  die  Wolkenschaar, 
Dureh  Liebe  begeistert,  aus  liebe  es  sprang. 

Mit  nassem  FlUgel  bin, 

Wo,  wohin  willst  du  ziehn  I 
Auf  Erden  die  Liebe,  himmelan  der  Gesang. 

Ueber  Berg,  Uber  Bach  hin, 

Heide  und  Htigel  griin, 
Ueber  des  Morgens  roth-strSmenden  Strahl, 

Ueber  das  Wolkenband, 

Ueber  des  Bogens  Rand, 
Melodischer  Cherub,  flieg,  weg,  ttberall  I 

Kommt  dann  die  D&mm'rung  vor, 

Unter  dem  Heideflor, 
Sttss  sey  dein  Gruss  und  dein  Liebesbett  mir ! 

Sinnbild  von  Freude  bist, 

Selig  dein  Wohnort  ist — 
Mi$cht'  Ich  auf  Oedea  nor  wohnen  mit  dir ! 


THE  EXILE  OF  ERIN. 

BY  THE  LAST  COUNT  OF  PUBOSTALL.* 

Es  wandelt'  ein  Fremdling  am  einsamen  Ufer, 
Der  Morgenthau  netzte  sein  diinnes  Gewand  ; 
Es  wandelt'  ein  Fremdling  am  windigen  Hiigel, 
Und  blickte  hiniiber  zum  heimischen  Land. 
Ba  sah  er  die  Sonne  mit  trunkenen  Blicken 
Sich  dort  bey  der  Insel  den  Wogen  entriicken. 
Wo  einst  er  mit  jugendlich  frohem  Entziicken, 
Gesungen  die  Lieder  von  Erin  go  bragh. 

Grausames  Schicksal,  erseufzte  der  Fremdling, 
Der  Wolf  kann  in  sichemde  H5hlungen  fliehn, 
Nur  ich  kann  alleinig  zur  Heimath  nicht  fluchten, 
Wenn  Sturm  und  Gefahr  mich  drohend  umziehn. 
Ach !  mir  ist  die  Freude  wohl  nimmer  gegeben, 
Im  sonnigen  Thale  der  Heimath  zu  lel^n  ; 
Nie  wird  mir,  wie  einst  dort,  die  Harfe  erbeben, 
Begleitend  die  Tdne  von  Erin  go  bragh. 

Erin,  zu  deinen  geliebten  Gestaden 
Kehr  ich  in  wonnigen  Trliumen  zurUck; 


Doch'  ich  erwache  im  Lande  der  Fremde, 
Suche  die  Freunde  mit  klagendem  Bliok, 
Wirst  du  denn,  Schicksal,  mich  ewigUch  hassen ! 
Werden  mich  nimmer  die  Briider  um&ssen ! 
Mussten  im  Kampfe  sie  fUr  mich  erblaaaen, 
Oder  erleben,  verbannt  mich  zu  sehen ! 

Wo  ist  die  Htitte  imgrttnenden  Walde  1 
Hat  sie  des  Krieges  Yerwiistung  zerstdrt  f 
Wo  ist  die  Mutter,  die  treu  mich  gepfleget, 
Und  wo  ist  der  Freund,  den  ich  liebend  verehrt  I 
Warum,  O  du  thSriehtes  Herz,mit  Gefallen 
DiohkettenanGuter,die  irdisch  zerfallen  t 
Es  ktf nnen  die  Jahre  wie  Thautropfen  fidlen, 
Doch  Freude  dir  bringen,  sie  kSnnen  es  nicht. 

Doch  in  der  Erinn'mngen  Schmerzen  verainkend, 
Ist  ewig  ein  Wunsch  nur  dem  Herzen  mir  nah ; 
Erin,  ich  segue  dich  aus  der  Yerbannung, 
Erin,  mein  Yaterland,  Erin  go  bragh  ! 
Wenn  einstens  im  Grabe  gestillet  mein  Sehnen, 
M9g  ewiges  GrUn  dir  die  Felder  verschSnen, 
Und  hoch  dir  der  Barden  Lieder  noch  tiinen 
Erin  Mavoumin,  Erin  go  bragh  1 


*  We  committed  an  error  last  month  in  attributiiu;  the  Tranilation  of  PihroclCof  Donald  Dhu  to  that  Gonnt  of  PoxgsUU, 
vrho  lived  for  a  considerable  time  in  Edinburgh,  ana  married  Miss  Cranstoun,  the  sister  of  Mrs.  Dngald  Stewart,  and  tbe 
early  friend  and  life-long  correspondent  of  Sir  Walter  Scott.  The  last  Count  of  Purgstall  wu  the  translator  ;  itbo,  thoagb, 
he  died  in  boybood,  after  giving  promise  of  remarkable  talent,  as  he  survived  his  father,  bore  the  title.  He  must,  however, 
from  his  birth,  and  the  peculiar  character  and  attainments  and  tastes  of  his  celebrated  mother,  have  been  more  Scottish,  or 
more  ^>oeli(xUly  connected  with  oar  country,  than  his  fatber  could  have  been.  Those  of  our  readers  who  are  familiar  with 
Captam  Basil  HalPs  Schlois  fffun/eld,  will  remember  the  touching  history  of  the  highly-gifted  boy,  and  the  bereaved  mother 
whom  sorrow  for  his  premature  loss  bowed  down  with  grief  to  the  and  of  her  days. 


119 


BON  GAULTIER  AND  HIS  FRIENDS. 

**  A  moT  n*«st  qae  honnenr  et  elotre  d^estre  diet  et  repute  Bon  Gactltibr  et  bon  compaignon :  es  ce  nom,  suis  bien  venu 
en  tootes  bonnes  compaignies  de  Pantagruelistes."— Rabelais,  Proloffue  de  premier  livre. 


ScBS(E.—Tke  Interior  of  the  MarUOo  Towery  Leitk^A 
lar^  eireukw  Apartment  lighted  hy  a  chandelier  from 
ike  centre— Bookekdtee  and  Preeue  round  the  itallt— 
A  large  fire  ia  blazing,  near  which  are  two  tofae  and  a 
table,  and  a  camp  bed  is  dimly  mtiJtle  oppoeite — In  the 
midU  of  ike  floor  it  a  aqnare  opening,  w&h  a  lifted  trap- 
door,atukieh  the  thaJUofa  ladder  are  weible.  Timb 
^NearMidni^. 

BoK  Gaultibr  (caUing  down  the  opening.  J 
MTheraon ! 

Thane  Cfram  the  Well-hole. J 
Oigh !  Olgh !  her  nainsell's  here. 

Bon  Gaultieb. 
WO]  yon  leave  that  small  still  of  yoursy  you 
incorrigible  savage,  and  listen  to  me  ?    I  hear  some 
one  battering  at  the  gate. 

Thanb. 
Twnll  pe  an  exceeseman,  nae  doot ;  but  she 's  no 
to  get  in  here. 

Bon  Gaultier* 
At  the  same  time,  you  wiU  do  me  the  favour 
to  pop  that  shock-head  of  yours  out  of  the  port- 
liole,  and  see  who  it  is.  I  heard  a  clanking  just 
DOW,  as  if  aome  one  were  meddling  with  the 
fastenings. 

Thane. 
Her  nainsell  will  do  that— f  ^  loave  breaks  in  at 
thepor^holej — ^Feegh!  proots!  she's  clean puahioned 
wi'  the  saut  water !  feegh ! 

BoN  Gaultier. 
A  regnlar  cascade !    Try  it  again,  old  Ossian  ; 
your  hair  will  be  none  the  worse  for  a  touch  of 
Neptones  Macassar.    Well,  who  is  iti 
Thane. 
Tateevil!  there's  a  man  down  jielow,  like  an 
offiflher,  in  a  poat ! 

Bon  Gaultier. 
The  deuce !     A  sheriff's  officer  ? 

Thane. 
May  pe  ay,  and  may  pe  no ;  but  she's  mair  like 

taaiiffrny Fa's  tat,  I  say  ? 

Voice  without. 
Hallo!    Aloft  there! 

Bon  Gaultier. 
0,  it's  aU  right !    My  friend  Captain  O'Malley, 
at  last.     Up  with  the  portcullis,  M'Pherson,  and 
secure  the  boat  to  the  foot  of  the  ladder. 

(Captain  CMalley  emerges  from  the  weU-hoU.) 
My  dear  (yMaHey— delighted  to  see  you.  Wel- 
come to  my  winter  quarters ! 

O'MALLEr. 

By  Jove,  Bon,  this  is  a  surprise,  indeed !  I  could 
Iwrdly  believe  that  you  were  not  hoaxing  me, 
when  I  got  your  note.  I  had  no  idea  the  interior 
of  this  old  fortress  was  habitable ;  and  to  say  the 
truth,  the  sight  of  that  Traitor's  Gate  of  yours 
down  bebw  was  rather  ominous.  What  kind 
of  garrison  do  you  keep  ?  That  Highland  familiar 
of  yours— you  11   forgive  me— might  be  a  little 


comelier  without  injuring  his  national  peculiar!* 
ties. 

Bon  Gaultier. 
Comelier?  It  would  be  painting  the  lily,  to 
touch  him.  He's  a  whole  garrison  in  himself. 
That  red  head  of  his  is  as  good  as  a  blunderbuss. 
I  never  knew  the  messenger's  concurrent  yet,  that 
could  look  him  steadily  in  the  face.  But  how  like 
you  the  interior? 

O'Malley. 
Vastly !    A  little  dark  and  Rembrandtish  or  so ; 
but  one  gets  easily  used  to  that.    The  well-hole 
is  a  study  for  Cruikshank.    Dampish,  eh  ? 
BoN  Gaultier. 
Not  a  whit.    As  dry  as  an  oven. 

O'Malley. 
And  so  you  got  it  from  the  Lords  of  the  Admi- 
ralty, eh  ?  How  good  I  Quite  a  snuggery,  I  swear  ; 
and  with  a  bundle  of  cigars,  a  bottle  of  sherry,  or 
a  sHght  soupfon  of  cogniac,  I  should  prefer  it  on 
the  whole  to  one  of  our  old  bivouacks  in  the  Pen- 
insula. 

Bon  Gaultier. 
MTherson!  Bring  up  some  of  Cockbum  and 
Campbell's  yellow  seal,  the  spirit-case,  and  the 
kettle !  You  have  no  idea  how  cool  the  cellars  are. 
O'Malley. 
Hav'n't  I  ?  rU  trouble  you  for  a  light.  I  had  as 
fine  a  specimen  of  coolness  to-day  as  you'll  find  to 
the  south  of  Kamschatka.— Are  these  cigars 
Cotton's?— Heft  Glasgow  this  morning,  and  out 
of  a  strange  perversity  determined  to  travel  by  the 
sole  remanent  coach,  instead  of  the  railway.  The 
consequence  was,  that  we  stuck  in  the  snow,  near 
one  of  your  country  cathedrals, — ^I  think  they 
call  it  Shotts ;  and  I  had  to  wade  three  mortal 
miles  with  the  fifteen-stone  widow  of  a  Greenock 
grocer  upon  my  back. 

Bon  Gaultier. 
Few  men  would  complain  of  cold  under  such  a 
pressure  of  circiunstances. 

O'Malley. 
No  more  did  I,  at  first ;  but  tlie  unusual  gravity 
of  the  fair  proprietrix  of  the  figs  in  the  end  fairly 
threw  me  off  my  perpendicular,  and  we  both  suc- 
cumbed in  the  snow-drift.  If  it  had  not  been  for 
two  intelligent  hawbucks, — who,  by  the  way, 
mulcted  me  in  half  a  sovereign  a-piece  for  their 
pains, — ^there  would  have  been  a  vacancy  in  her 
Majesty's  Enniskillens. 

BoN  Gaultier. 
Anything  stirring  in  Glasgow  when  you  left, 
O'MaUey? 

O'Malley. 
Nothing  particular.  St.  Rollox,  I  presume,  still 
watches  over  the  safety  of  his  beloved  Gallowgate, 
from  the  top  of  yon  colossal  chimney.  By  the 
way,  Bon,  who  the  mischief  was  this  St.  Rollox? 
Is  there  any  mention  of  him  in  the /S<pffiftoi7u*fortti»  ? 


120 


BON  GAULTIER  AND  UIS  FRIENDS. 


Bon  Gaultier. 

Not  a  word.  Mobt  pi-obably  he  was  some  West 
country  lad,  who  was  canonized  for  the  invention 
of  calico.  There  are  a  good  many  of  these  gentry 
in  the  west.  St.  Mirren  has  charge  of  the  destinies 
of  Paisley,  and  Ayr  confides  in  the  mediation  of  a 
certain  St,  Qui  vox.  I  wish  somebody  would  write 
a  sort  of  supplementary  Semita^  and  act  as  the 
biographer  of  the  lesser  luminaries  who  have  been 
jostled  from  the  Scottish  calendar. 
O'Malley. 

"  Saint  Mirren,  and  strike  home !"  What  a  mag- 
nificent war-cry  1 

Box  Gaultikr. 

Or  "  Saint  Rollox  for  the  Gorbals!"  I  shall  cer- 
tainly introduce  them  in  my  next  novel.  By  the 
way,  I  had  forgot  that  I  have  some  verses  on 
the  subject  of  this  very  Saint,  from  a  bard  of  the 
Whistlebinkie  school,— execrable  enough,  I  allow, 
but  not  worse  than  the  average  of  the  Molendinar 
ditties.  Suppose  I  sing  them  % 
O'MLalley. 

With  all  my  heart.     Only  wait  till  I  mix  my- 
self another  glass.    Now,  push  along ! 

Bon  Gaultier  tings 

THE  SONG  OF  ST.  ROLLOX. 

Air, — ^  St.  Patrick  teas  a  gentleman,** 

Your  h'athen  bards  may  rhyme  and  rant 

0'  Castor  and  o'  Pollux. 
But  what  were  they,  the  brithers  twae, 

To  oor  auld  f^cend  St.  Rollox  \ 
What  though  they  raise  or  lay  (he  gales 

That  Boreas  has  begotten, 
While  oor  St.  Rollox  guards  oor  bales 
O'  calico  and  cotton ! 
Then,  brithers, join  your  sangs  wi*  mine; 

Let 's  spend  the  nioht  in  frolics; 
We  'U  neyer  want  a  patron  saunt 
Sae  lang  ^s  we  've  gude  St.  Rollox ! 

Nae  foreign  sannts  will  do  for  hiz; 

O*  them  we  've  had  jam  tatU; 
What  for  Bhould  we  no  raise  our  saunts, 

As  weel  's  oor  ain  pitawties ! 
A  (ilesgie  chap  he  was — ^nae  waur — 

Nane  o'  your  Romish  fangle, 
And  naething  kent  o'  the  Calendar,' 
Though  his  mither  keep't  a  mangle  I 
Then,  brithers,  join  your  sangs  wi'  mine; 

Let  *8  spend  the  nicht  in  fh>lics; 
We  '11  never  want  a  patron  saunt 
Sae  lang 's  we  've  gude  St.  Rollox ! 

His  faether  had  a  wee  pawn  shop — 

His  sign  was  three,  not  four  balls — 
His  sisters  twae,  they  used  to  stop 

Oot  bye  about  the  Gorbals. 
The  Green  has  seen  his  bairns'  pranks; 

And  aft  my  fancy  gladdens. 
To  think  by  Molcudinar's  banks 
He  roamed,  and  the  Cowcaddens. 
Then,  brithers,  join  your  sangs  wi'  mine; 

Let 's  spend  the  nicht  in  frolics; 
We  '11  never  want  a  patron  saunt 
Sae  lang 's  we  've  gude  St.  Rollox ! 

He  kent  fu'  well  to  wind  and  reel, 

Invented  canmric  collars, 
And  was  the  first  that  bauldly  durst 

Singe  muslin  wi'  het  rollers  ; 
He  search'd  the  land,  and  fUnd  blackband. 

Made  red  the  bellows'  noses. 
And  ftae  his  ain  lang  chumley  tap 

Got  \xU  uputhe0i:i:3 ! 


Then,  brithers,  join  your  sangs  wi'  mine ; 
Let 's  spend  the  nicht  in  fjroli^;' 

We  '11  never  want  a  patron  saunt 
Sae  lang 's  we  've  gude  St.  Rollox ! 

O'ALlLLEY. 

Thank  Heaven !  you've  reached  the  end'  of  it. 
My  teeth  are  on  edge  !     The  fellow  who  wrote 
that  deserves  to  be  ducked  in  his  native  Gusedubs ! 
Is  there  much  of  tills  trash  afloat  ? 
Bon  Gaultier. 

Reams.  It  seems,  in  fact,  to  be  becoming  the 
standard  literature  of  Scotland.  The  language  of 
Burns  has  been  withdrawn,  as  antiquated  and  vul- 
gar ;  and  the  jai^on  of  Camlachie  is  substituted 
in  its  place.  Have  you  seen  Whistlebinkie  1 
O'Malley. 

Not  I.  WTiat  the  mischief  is  it  ? — a  person  or 
a  place  ? 

BoN  Gacltier. 

Neither.  It  is  the  nom  dc  ffuerre  6f  the  Paisley 
Parnassus,  or  rather  the  mash-tub  in  which  our 
occidental  rhymsters  are  pleased  to  manufacture 
their  small  beer.  There  is  humour,  however, 
about  the  knaves,  which  b  a  great  redeeming  qua- 
lity ;  and  sometimes  there  is  a  glimpse  of  genius ; 
but  the  dialect  is  generally  disgnsting. 
O'Malley. 

I  don 't  know  much  about  Scotch  poetiy ;  but  it 
sounds  both  strong  and  plaintive. 
Bon  Gaultier. 

So  it  always  will,  when  the  proper  stting  is 
touched.  There  are  some  men,  such  as  Balian- 
tyne,  Thom,  Park,  or  Latto,  who  can  stfll'  wTite 
well  and  purely;  and  poor  Allan  Cunningham  wa^ 
the  best  and  the  purest  of  thein^^all.  But  the 
worse  taste  is  prevalent. 

O'MALLfiY. 

What  is  Wilson  the  vocalist  doing? 

Bon  Gaultier.^     * 
Declining  sadly  in  his  matter.    After  the  glo- 
rious Jacobite  ditties,  which  hurried  one  back  in 
soul  to  the  stonny  era  of  Culloden,  he  was  pleased 
to  favour  the  public  with  a  **  Nicht  wi*  Bums." 
Some  people  liked  it,  I  daresay — but  to  me  it  re- 
called the  memory  of  the  ganger  more  forcibly 
than  the  recollection  of  the  poet.     He  is  now,  I 
hear«  about  to  exhilarate  our  pensive  public  with 
"  A  Haver  wi'  Jamie  Hogg.*^ 
O'Malley. 
What!    The  Ettrick  Shepherd? 

BoN  Gaultier. 
Even  so.    It  is  ten  thousand  pities  that  the  law 
cannot  step  in  to  prevent  such  desecration.    But 
the  worat  is  yet  to  come.    Another  London  vocalist 
is  attempting  to  trump  Wilson  with  "  A  Nicht  wi' 
Queen  Mary,''  which  is  actually  advertised. 
O'Malley. 
It  is  enough  to  make  Ilizzio's  blood  curdle  in 
the  boaixls  of  Holyrood ! 

BoN  Gaultioi.    * 
If  this  style  of  thing  progresses,  we  Inay  yet 
have  "  A  Jaunder  wi'  Sandy  RodgeifY"" 
O'Malley. 
Or  «  A  Tumbler  wi'  GilfiUan— " 

BoN  Gaultier. 
Or  «A  Gill  wr  the  Gaberlunzie  Man!"    By 
He.ivens,    O'Jilalley  !   nobody   will  be   safe.     It 


BON  GAtJLTIER  AND  HIS  PRIEraS. 


121 


would  not  snrprifle  me  one  whit  to  hear,  one  iine 
daj,  the  announcement  of — 

Voice  in  the  Well-hole. 
«  A  Jng  Wi'  Bon  Gaultier ! " 

O'Malley. 
What  vas  that? 

Thai^  Crushing  wildly  up  the  ladder.) 

Taaealgh!  tasealgh!  She'll  no  hide  naelanger 

in  ta  water  hoos,  ^a'  ta  kelpies  an'  ta  speaking 

sealghs !      Safe  us !   here's  ta  muckle  hrute  ! — 

( Snatches  Q  blunderbuss  from  the  wall,  J 

YoirsQ  ScoTt AXD,  (bounds  up  the  ladder  in  a  close- 

fiUijig  sealsUn  dress.  J 
Drop  the  gun,  you  Highhind  heathen,  or  I'll 
brain  jou  on  the  spot  like  a  Covenanter !     Don't 
you  know  me  ? 

Thane. 
Oigh !  and  sure  enough  it's  Maister  Charles,  at 
his  auld  pliskies.    Wha  wad  hae  thought  to  see  ye 
heie  at  this  deed  hour  o'  nicht ;  and,  Lord  safe  us ! 
like  a  seaigh  ? 

YouNO  Scotland. 
Vanish,  thou  son  of  CuthuUin,  and  return  with 
a  tumbler.     Well,  Bon,  how  are  you  ?  . 
O'Malley,  (Aside,) 
Bon,  who  is  this  extraordinary  Triton  ? 

BoN  Gaultier. 
A  perfect  Proteus.    Allow  me  to  introduce  you : 
Captain  O'Malley— Mr.  Charles  Edward. 
YouNO  Scotland. 
O'^Ialley  I   The  very  nxan,  above  all  others,  I 
wished  to  know-r-excuse  the  dampness  of  my  fin. 
May  I  take  the  liberty  of  inquiring  for  Lucy — ^I 
mean  Mrs.  O'Malley,  and  the  rest  of  the  family  ? 
Bon,  it  would  be  a  kind  tuxn  in  you  to  concoct  a 
tambler  for  my  especial  benefit ;  for  the  night  is 
sharp,  and  I  have  had  rather  an  unusual  stretch. 
BoN  Gaultier. 
It  is  no  great  swim  from  the  end  of  the  pier, 
since  you  wece  mad  enough  to  try  it. 
Young  Scotland. 
^ot  from  the  end  of  the  pier,  certainly :  but 
luchkeith  is  ^  trifle  further, 

Bon  Gavltier. 
Inchkcith !  ^"Wliat  on  earth  do  you  mean  1 

Young  Scotland. 
Nothing  on  earth,  but  a  good  deal  in  the  water. 
Simple  as  I  sit  here,  I  have  swum  out  to  Inchkeith 
aod  back  again  to-night  since  eight  of  the  clock, 
and  feel  considerably  benumbed. — This  compound 
is  fair ;  but  errs  on  the  side  of  sugar, 
O'Malley,  (in  a  whisper.) 
I  say^  pon,  is  your  friend  altogether— eh  ? 
you  comprehend  me  ? 

BoN  Gaultier. 
0, perfectly!    He  sticks  at  nothing;  but  his 
friends  are  quite  used  to  it.    That's  rather  a  sin- 
gular swimming  dress  of  yours,  Charles.    Where 
Jidyongetit? 

Young  Scotland. 
From  the  fitudson's  Bay  Company.   It's  a  capi- 
tal article,  and  keeps  out  every  drop  of  water. 
*Gad,  though,  it  nearly  cost  me  my  life  to-night. 
I  was  fired  at,  by  mistake,  for  a  seal. 
Bon  Gaultier. 
What  took  you  to  Inchkeith,  of  all  places? 


Young  Scotland. 

Love.  There  is  a  charming  creature  at  the 
light-house — an  enchanting  Ilero  that  tends  that 
Pharos  of  the  Forth.  Iler  image  has  been  perpe- 
tually before  me  for  the  last  three  months:  so, 
this  evening,  when  I  saw  the  distant  spark  begin 
to  twinkle  on  the  island,  and  thought  that  it  was 
kindled  by  the  fair  fingers  of  Joan  M^Closkie,  I 
felt  that  I  could  no  longer,  with  honour,  refuse  to 
obey  the  signal ;  and,  according